\ ih-FAYS \ , transitive verb;
1. To cause to disappear by rubbing out, striking out, etc.; to erase; to render illegible or indiscernible.
2. To destroy, as a mental impression; to wipe out; to eliminate completely.
3. To make (oneself) inconspicuous.
We need to talk.
It’s not you. It’s me. This is just no longer working out.
I can’t see you full time anymore. Almost two years together, and you have sucked the life out of me. I am no longer a patient or loving person, and I blame you for it.
Please don’t call or write. When the time is right, I will come back
To use my 40% off coupon.
Thank you for taking this effacement easily.
Used to be yours,
\ RIG-muh-rohl \ , noun;
1. An elaborate or complicated procedure.
2. Confused, incoherent, foolish, or meaningless talk
When attempting to write ‘rigmarole’ in my phone, t9 suggested signarle, then rignapole. This made me laugh harder than I had laughed all day, and that made me wonder about my sense of humor.
I’m starting work tomorrow in Mars Hill, NC but I do not have a place to live yet. The whole rigmarole of finding the perfect place can be exhausting. Ideally, it’d be close to work and climbing trees, it’d be furnished because I sold mine in a moment of quarterlife crisis, and there’d be a stable landlord. My biggest problem is that I’m far from practical. I saw a room for rent that was nice. I’m willing to pay big bucks for ‘nice’ because of a lovely hanging swing on the porch. I guess some would call that a porch swing. I dreamingly looked at the porch as I pictured the relaxing afternoons sipping fresh squeezed lemonade, reading something thought provoking, then writing about those thoughts, all while swinging in the breeze. Though if I sign the lease, I will have not money left over for the lemons to freshly squeeze them into lemonade.
Decisions, decisions. Signarle, rignapole. Rigmarole.
\ HOB-uhl-dee-hoy \ noun;
1. An awkward, gawky young fellow.
I’m lined up to fly into fall tonight. Departing from the steamy asphalt of Clearwater and arriving in the refreshing breeze of the Blue Ridge. Blue Ridge Breezes are what I’ve been craving.
The airport is frigid. I’m tempted to unzip my packed suitcase to throw some socks on with my chacos. My hands are colder than the pool I spent my last two months swimming in.
Fall. Warm days, cool nights. Light jackets wrapped around your waist. I could wrap a jacket around my waist and put socks on with my chacos and automatically become a womanly hobbledehoy.
There is a man here that would be unfairly labeled as a hobbledehoy. I seem to have a heart for them. I smile bigger and am in no rush to leave their close proximity. I am the opposite of this around people who are the opposite of hobbledehoy. This man is lengthy. He’s fairly young. And he laughs like a friendly version of a Lion King hyena. Hobbledehoys often have a hard time getting through security scene-less. This makes my heart go out to them even more.
2. the practice of using a pet name.
3. the use of forms of speech imitative of baby talk, esp. by an adult.
I had a very appropriate pet name my freshman year of high school. Simply “my pet.” Though there was nothing ‘simple’ about the name giver. I often heard his name mentioned in the halls between class. Tom Porter this, Tom Porter that. Curly dark hair and eyes as blue as my favorite colored pencil. Brightly hip Hawaiian shirts everyday. A senior on the baseball team. I was Tom Porter’s pet.
Did he mean anything by it? Neh. Did I still daydream that he might secretly love me? Highly possible. For one short year, with my orange and blue braces and my jammin adidas slides, I reached greatness because of a simple, short, perfect hypocorism.
Love Does by Bob Goff
Storyline by Donald Miller
START by Jon Acuff
Read these books, and you will most likely quit your job and buy a one-way ticket to somewhere. Or start waking up at 5am to write a novel. Or start giving away everything you own. You might realize you’ve been stuck. You might start feeling claustrophobic.
It was like an awakening. It was like a dear long lost friend was reaching out a hand to pull me out of the rut I had turned into my comfortable little den, with a recliner and indent of my tush. At 27, I was dangerously approaching a quarter-life crisis, and I am far too old for such. Unless I live to be 108. So I started to jot down plans on napkins. I have always wanted to go an adventure.
I saw the Lord of the Rings movies in 2006. I said, “that place isn’t real.” My friend said, “It’s New Zealand.”
“I will go there.”
So, it took me getting a job as Director of Alumni Relations in the college town I love, to remind me I need to be out adventuring, writing about the quality of the climbing trees in the southern hemisphere, sipping on locally roasted espresso, tasting seafood caught around the corner, and meeting kiwis in the human form. An 8-5 desk job hurt me, physically and emotionally. I am far too young to be feel so damn old. Or something like that.
I applied for a working holiday visa and got accepted to work in exchange for my housing and food while traveling around hobbit country.
I have two bright and beautiful friends, Kasey and Brittany, that are joining the adventure!
While at my favorite downtown bookstore, I saw a waterproof journal in the travel section. I flipped through the pages, figured I needed it, checked the price, then decided I’d write while undercover for free.
I bought a one-way ticket and will arrive in Auckland on September 19th, my 28th birthday, after a 20 hour flight from Tampa.
I bought a powerball ticket (jackpot was $300 million) and realized that my plans wouldn’t even change if I won. Well, I guess I wouldn’t shear sheep or scrub toilets while in NZ.