needles & vectors

Do you have any idea how hard it is to come up with something for the letter E? Every thing I thought of made no real sense: eggs, engineering, eating. I don’t really want to talk about eggs for an entire entry, seeing as they’re not even close to my favoirte food. Engineering, boring. Eating, eh. I’d rather take F for food.

Getting me enthused about a new project is easy. I won’t talk about that, yet again. Soon I’ll post an entry about how I’m planning to tackle all of my in-process craft projects. Non-crafty projects involve school, upcoming trips, and SWE (Society of Women Engineers). And that whole thing about Matt wanting to make his own sausage and cure his own ham.

Here’s the where I get odd: little makes me ethused outside of my projects. I try to make everything a project so I’ll get excited. There’s energy in the coordination of people and items, determination of steps to completion, planning when the steps will happen, and checking off my little to do boxes. Try to rile me up about something that’s not a project (or something that gets in the way of my project) and you’ll hit a brick wall. Care about politics? I have opinions but the energy just isn’t there for me. Maybe if I were Maegan, a sometimes-protestor, I would get into it. Then I’d have a project!

And now for something completely different..

I’m the least empathetic person ever. When someone says a family member is sick, I say sorry and offer to do anything but it always sounds insincere. No one comes to me when things go wrong. I just cannot get myself to feel how they’re feeling. I tend to think about how they could improve their situation. Here’s an example: girl at school compalined to me about how her dad keeps telling here what major to choose. I told her that she needs to choose for herself, that he cannot control that part of her life. Even if he’s paying for school and she may lose that if she chooses her own major, it’s worth it. She went off in a huff. (Maybe I should have explained that she drives me nuts with her high-school-was-the-best-time-of-my-life attitude and loud voice.) What she actually wanted to hear was that I feel for her, that my parents were sometimes a little too controlling, that she should probably mention it’s her choice but not to push it.

See, I’m screwy. The more of these entries I write, the more bizare I feel. By the end of this, no one other than my parents will be reading (ok, maybe Amy too ’cause she already knows my weirdness).