We were talking in Honors Colloquium about those darn red squiggly lines that haunt every word-processing document, distracting the writer until they succumb into fixing the error. Not unlike processed meat, made from a variety of cows and squeezed into squiggly-tubed meat-lumps that look like red brains; we find the pure essence of thought "processed" by our word-processors. The residing teacher of said-class, Pro. Porter, explained how in certain class-sessions he would have students type with the monitor turned off, then print the documents (without looking at them), in the interest of experimenting with a possible method for 'processing the processor'.

More loosely writing-related-thought. I worked for a publishing company awhile, doing the grueling task of inputting corrected manuscripts into word documents. I thought that because the company had the coolness of being located at a refurbished barn, and because I loved to read anything, the task would be not so hard as it seemed. The thing about refurbished barns, is they're still drafty...and, when one is working at a publishing company, especially when one is doing something menial; pace and deadline dominates all...so no reading as you go. I had the wonderful opportunity of doing several cookbooks wherein hours of correction taught me the difference between the three dashes (dash, en dash, em dash). It's really amazing how little you can learn in such vast amounts of time and effort. And now….for something completely random.

I have this burn on my tongue, and hey, you know about burns? I wanted to talk with somebody about having burns on your tongue, and I was thinking, "No...It’s not interesting enough," but then I thought, "Wait, when does something need to be interesting in order to be talked about?" Where did I cross the line where everything I say has to be extraordinary? Why shouldn't I talk about burning my tongue? It feels weird... taste buds regenerate quickly... what do smokers taste on their tongues? Can you taste your taste buds? Does one sense their senses; is that possible? Back to burns; it was the infamous cup of hot chocolate I burned my tongue on today in a moment of hastiness too late to regret. That's usually how it goes when you drink something. For some reason, no matter how much the drink burns down your throat, threatening to incinerate your esophagus; you find you don't have the heart to spit it out (the exception being that one time I chugged some buttermilk innocently thinking it was just a buttery-flavored milk)- which I recognize isn't quite the same since I was talking about hot drinks.