The Famous Chocolateer

I was reminded yesterday as I walked to comics class why I love spring. I'm not really big on the season as a whole--I'm not a fan of mud, or those spattery-windy-rainy days that always seem so petulant. But spring is certainly the best time of year to fantasize about living in a Willy Wonka-run biosphere.

That hill of grass? Could be scooped up with your hands and nibbled, and would taste like lime. Lime and wheatgrass, and the soil would be lime-infused chocolate. Sweet and tart. The forsythia branches could be pulled out whole, the flowers crunching in your teeth before you attacked the branch itself, chewy and tangy. Every flower, every tender leaf on every tree, would be edible. Spring is the most edible-looking season out there.

Which was why I was so upset when it snowed today. Snow is like shredded coconut on my Willy Wonka fantasy world, and I hate coconut.

"I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven."
~Walt Whitman

EDIT: I was making my final nightly blog round, and ran into this post by Stephanie:

Imagine that you'll be married in less than a year. What do you want for you right now, knowing that soon your life will never be the same?

For me right now, I would want not to be getting married in less than a year. What I want for me right now is to have as much of these next five years to be as selfish as humanly possible, to pursue my education without thought for what damage it might be doing to anyone else. To, I think, be a Dr. before I'm a Mrs., to perhaps have the personal fortitude to become an M.D.

I would regret getting married too soon--I'm not done yet. I'm still an amoeba, still hardening my exoskeleton. I change too dramatically in too short periods of time to ask anyone to stick by me for it, knowing I might suddenly dislike them in six months, or they me. Six months ago I wanted to graduate as Dr. R, not Dr. Leigh. His father's a surgeon, and I thought it would be so cool to be the second Dr. R in the family. Six months later, that's not what I want at all. I'm back to not knowing if I want to get married, or if I just think it's something I should do.

To my future husband, whoever you are: You are a brave man. I'm a handful. I'm a cold, harsh bitch with exacting standards and no qualms about letting people know when they haven't met them. I'm smart and I know it, and I have trouble admitting when I'm wrong.

But I am loving, and I am loyal, and I sincerely hope you're ready for me whenever I meet you.