snail mail

I stole a handicap sign. Now before you hack into my personal information, find my address and set my house on fire to emulate the burning flames of hell you think i should be immersed in, let me explain my rational. This sign had no purpose. It wasn't even up. We found it behind the 76 gas station among cardboard boxes and cigarette posters (why we were behind there, i don't know). The poor hunk of metal looked so forgotten and pathetic, i think we almost did it a favor, stealing it. The only part we didn't think through all the way was that the sign was still attached to the pole. It made taking said sign all the more difficult, seeing as the pole had to hang out the window of my jalopy. In the end, hanna got the sign, i got the pole. Well shit. Anyone need scrap metal?

Yesterday i watched this awkward independent (and maybe french) movie called goldfish memory which i came across while browsing the netflix watch-instantly section. They say that goldfish have a 3 second memory (how they test the memory of a goldfish, i have yet to find out). That means that if this amnesia-ridden creature were to swim around it's uneventful bowl in those 3 seconds, every time around would be like the first time around. The movie related this ignorance to a human in love. Each time a human gets another chance to fall in love, the memory of the last heartbreak and pain disappears. Every time we put ourselves out to be loved, it is like the first time we have every been in love. I guess everything we do is like this as well. What we say, eat, think, is all a compilation of things that have already happened. Why is it that every summer brings out the strongest need for us to embark on something new when everything new to do has already been done? We're creatures of habit, yet we have an uncontrollable desire for change. I have less than 24 hours to assemble my life for the next 8 weeks, like i have been doing for the past 10 summers. You'd think i'd eventually learn to start my laundry earlier huh?

And now, a short note from our sponsors: Send me mail at camp! last year i got the occasional letter from my parents and guilt-infused friends. You could be one of those friends:

Rachel Sherman/Staff

B.B. Camp

P.O. Box 110

Neotsu, OR 97364

Do it, i dare you