Not much to report tonight, er, this morning. Whatever. Rodey the Rodent is rustling, which is just a super cool spring thing for a mouse to do. I did the hapkido thing tonight. The Korean masters are visiting, which means a language barrier, but they get their point across regardless. I'm about six months away from a black belt, but the anticipation is already killing me. I've been involved in martial arts in one form or another for the last ten years, a decade, so I'm ready to be awarded black belt status. The funny thing is, I started hapkido a year ago as a method of staying in shape, whereas my three years of Tae Kwon Do and Aikido were started because I wanted to be a black belt. When I started hapkido again (my first year was in Japan), I was more concerned about getting a massive workout rather than getting a black belt. However, my previous experience shot me through the ranks and now I find myself very close to a goal I thought was lost. If it happens, it happens. I'm still too docile to kick anyone's ass. Oh, what else can I do this morning? Let's try my hand at some off the cuff fiction. . .
Scott entered the Blockbuster video store and was immediately accosted by the seemingly bottled odor of fabricated Blockbuster structures (sort of a new car smell for movie rentals). Every building has its own smell. Hospitals smell like a crude mixture of despair, hope, death, life, sweat, medicine and catheters. Office buildings smell like paper, pseudo-efficiency (if that has a smell, but I believe it does), and microwaved popcorn. Blockbusters have a smell of dusty movies, carpet cleaner, and whatever sweaty employee may be standing next to you at any given time. Scott made his way among the domino display of movies and selected "Romancing the Stone." Of course he'd seen it before, many times before. But where else can you have romance, a treasure hunt, a crocodile eating a hand, and a happy ending? Scott smiled and made his way to the counter.
The girl behind the counter was attractive, in a shy sort of way. If you can define shy, I'd like to hear it. I define it as a furtive, nervous glance; an anxious soul that says nothing for fear of being exposed as overly interested, when, in fact, they're overly interested, hopeless romantics afraid to be exposed for what they are. Too bad, because they never let their true natures be known. And. . . Tune in forever for the next installment. It may happen, it may not.
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