This is way less interesting without gestures

So the small story of how I got home is thus:

I picked up Daniel, the American Spanish missionary kid from Calvin who I was giving a ride home, and headed east on I-96. Little did I know that a terrible secret lay beneath the hood of my car...

Earlier that day, I had tried to do my usual (Dad-commanded) check up routine on the car... the oil, the transmission fluid, the tire pressure, etc... but I could not get the hood to pop up. I've had this problem before, though. Usually, it's not a big deal. I hit it a few times, kick it, pop it from the inside again and it works. This time, it didn't. Okay, no big deal. It'll come up when I hit a bump. As I filled up my tank and drove around campus that day, it didn't, though. Hm. Oh well. I guess it's stuck.

Anyway, I pick up Daniel and start heading home. We're trying to me amiable and get along when all of a sudden, BAM! I look up and I suddenly can't see. Luckily, we were in the right lane, so I pull into the shoulder and evaluate the situation.

Have you seen Tommy Boy? That part when their hood flies up into the windshield? Yeah. That happened. And it was bent.

So we get outside and try to put it back down only to find that it's so bent it won't close. Okay. Now what? Well, I had some straps... So that's what we did. We strapped that hood down tight. In the rain and cold. Ick.

So there's that. We keep heading south. Eventually, my right windshield wiper flipped upside down and did nothing, so I pulled over and yanked it off. Now I'm driving 60 miles an hour, in the dark, with a hood that could come up at any moment and one wiper that doesn't work. And then the other wiper started smearing rather than wiping... I officially drove the most unsafe car I've ever driven in my life. I pulled over and got a wiper to get by and went the rest of the way home safely.

Yesterday, my dad and I banged the hood out until it could close (We even greased the clasp so it'll pop up again.). So now all I need is a new windshield, a new wiper, and there's something wrong with the sunroof...

But! It runs.

I'm safe

I am now safely in my home in tropical Medina, Ohio, just so ya'll know.

But the trip was not without its share of adventures, let me tell you.

Or rather, you can ask me later. Or I'll update tomorrow. I'm tired now.

So close.

Lots and lots has been happening in my life. Too much, in fact. So much that I don't feel like catching up my paper journal or this one.

Narnia is over. This is a good thing. Now I have time to do my five projects that are due before the end of the semester.

I don't really know what else to put here. I just realized that I haven't updated this sucker in a while.

So that's that.

Get it? It's funny.

Sam Walter Foss

[A poem about creativity]
(1895)

One day through the primeval wood
A calf walked home as good calves should;
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.

Since then three hundred years have fled,
And I infer the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day
By a lone dog that passed that way;
And then a wise bellwether sheep
Pursued the trail o'er hill and glade
Through those old woods a path was made.

And many men wound in and out
And dodged and turned and bent about
And uttered words of righteous wrath
Because 'twas such a crooked path;
But still they followed -- do not laugh --
The first migration of that calf,
And through this winding woody-way stalked
Because he wobbled when he walked.

This forest path became a lane
That bent and turned and turned again;
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load
toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And thus, before we were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare.
And soon the central street was this
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

Each day a hundred thousand rout
Followed this zigzag calf about
And o'er his crooked journey went
The traffic of a continent.

A hundred thousand men were led
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent
To well-established precedent.