Writing? Moi?

There are times when I think you know, I should write something about that.  I'm not talking The Great American Novel, just a quick blog post about something that caught my interest or I've wondered about.  Such as when I watch the cat twist its head completely around - body facing that way, face aimed back this way -  and I wonder if humans will ever be modified to have that kind of flexibility.  Or when I read about the horror because someone let a bra strap show, and I wonder why we don't outgrow that kind of angst. (Well, most of us do, but apparently, not everyone.) Or - well, you get the idea.  Stray things.  I used to do that all the time, and now days will go by without writing something.

I never quite get around to writing down that transient thought, because lately I do two things.  I study French.  Or I agonize about my inability to speak casually in French.  Oh, I do other things -- read a little, cook a little, even occasionally bake -- but French has taken over my life.  The other day I said to a conversation partner that I would know I was fluent in French when I could use the word neurocognition in French.  They laughed, which is good, because even I know that's an unattainable goal, not to mention a completely unreasonable one. And yet I think wouldn't it be nice?

There are times when I think that I ought to say you know what?  Screw it.  Stop.