Romance

Right now I'm attempting to write a submission for the Ensign. Maybe it can be an "in" for one of my first publications. One can only hope.

My other best bet is to write a "lust in the dust" novel. Romance novels are published far more than any other genre, and they are the easiest to get a contract for. (I've done my research). My only problem is getting an idea for one. I've tried to read romance novels, but they seem boring and have no substance.

The Mormon romance novels are the worst: a girl meets a boy, and [gasp] he's not Mormon. The whole rest of the novel is dedicated to the conversion process: a complete waste of paper. Then they get married in the temple, and all happens before their first year in college.

Needless to say, I will not be writing a Mormon romance novel. I would rather stick to the true genre of "lust in the dust," where I shall create a fanciful world full of tall, muscular men that look incredibly good in speedos. Fabio can pose for my cover, even though he is well past his prime. You can't write a romance novel without having Fabio on the cover. Period.

So I'm either getting my foot in the door writing personal essays about my spiritual experiences for a religious magazine, or I'm getting my foot in the door writing a steamy piece of trash. Beggars can't be choosers.

The Weekend

I did absolutely nothing this weekend, and it felt great. Well, I did finish a sewing project, but it's a gift for a friend, so I can't show pictures until she gets it. For the rest of the weekend, I watched TV and grazed the contents of the refrigerator, which were non-existent.

A couple of weeks ago, if you happened to be driving by a side street off of Yellowstone Highway in Idaho Falls, you would have seen a white van parked by the side of the road. An arm was sticking out of the van's window holding a bio hazard bag. Two seconds later, you would have seen a green Toyota Rav4 screech around the corner on two wheels and buzz up to the van as the man's arm flung the bag into the passenger window of the Rav4. The casual pass was completed in a matter of seconds and detected by no one. And the bio hazard bag was to the airport on time that day, making it's way to New Jersey with punctuality. Now that's service. I love it when there's a fleeting moment that makes my day job seem bad ass.

Work

There are some things that I do at work that seem strange to explain. For instance, I spent a chunk of my day folding boxes, putting coolers in them, and sticking labels on the whole of the packages. This was all in preparation for shipping biological samples out of prisons. I'm glad to know that our prisoners are safe and healthy. It does my heart good.

Apparently, these prisoners are given no notice to when and where they will be shipped. They are just randomly shipped to rural states like Idaho, where cows outnumber people ten to one. I would like to personally thank the state of New Jersey for sending these wonderful people that keep me in business. Thank you, New Jersey.

I would also like to thank the prisoners themselves. Thank you for doing drugs so I can be employed in a small part of the effort it takes to test your blood. Also, thank you for giving me the resolve to never, never go to prison under any circumstance. Cheers.

Self-fulfilling Prophecy

My mom was saying that many of the young single adults in my branch live with their parents. It's something that I have noticed, too. She pointed out that it wasn't a big deal to the parents because many of them had big, nice homes that were perfectly capable of holding one other person with little or no inconvenience, and, after all, it's a good time in a person's life to be frugal and save money by living with one's parents.

It is with that statement that I have noticed a trend in our community. My parents and I live in a predominantly religious area. A couple of years ago, there was a trend of purchasing large houses. A lot of the forty-, fifty-, and sixty-year-olds said that if there were hard times ahead, like the times predicted in the Bible, they could house their children and grandchildren. They also bought food storage, going heavily in debt to prepare for the hard times that would surely come.

Now the hard times have come, and, after burrowing in their big, fancy dens, clutching their food storage like a mother squirrel would hang on to her last acorn, their children finally need the help that they so predicted. They thank the Lord for having this opportunity to help their needy children and see this as a divine opportunity to edify and instruct them for a second time because all the lectures from high school years certainly weren't enough.

But here's a thought--perhaps the adult children of the Baby Boomers wouldn't need all this help if their parents weren't so set on the end of the world. It's as if they wanted it, and then they created it. Now they have their disaster, and it's good for them that they prepared for it. All that food storage is going to come in handy. Those big houses sure come in handy when your kid can't get a job because the nation is swimming in debt. But don't worry; it's Wall Street's fault. All those people in their fancy suits. Disgusting.