But it's okay. I come from a family of List Makers.
This is how we survive. We write things down. Once they're written down, we don't have to panic about forgetting them (hooray), and then after that there's just the delightful pressure/guilt about how quickly we can knock items off it. What's more satisfying than scribbling over a word, knowing you'll never have to do it AGAIN?
Current items include:
- learn a Kansas accent (which from the youtube videos I've watched, sounds remarkably like my own when I'm feeling slightly southern, as opposed to the "midwestern" accent indicated by the director. sorry, not to be anal, but midwestern = Minnesota/Dakotah sounds to me, and I don't think I'm alone here.)
- rewrite scene
- send M lyrics
- grade essays
- get Chicago pics
- Sir spare your threats
and others less humorous out of context.
At least I'm not writing on my wrist anymore - a dangerous habit I picked up in high school that I had to curb on weeks I had performances or competitions. The benefit of the wrist is it's always there, you know? You won't lose your wrist like you could lose a piece of paper. Any notes there are there forever. Until you wash your hands, which, oops.
The other thing to keep in mind with wrist-notes having the right kind of pen. Too liquidy and the ink bleeds all over. Too dry and you're digging into your skin to get it to take. Sharpies are, in general, a Bad Call. Red pens don't wash out (when you're done with them) as easily as blacks or blues, and purples fade very quickly. And green is just not chic. [editor's note: it's possible I've thought too much about this.]
The back of the hand is another alternative for notes, but as that's a more public noticeboard, you must keep your larger audience in mind when scribbling June+John=TrueLove4EVER absently. And if you graduate to the rest of your forearm as well, we're delving into temporary tattoo land and then we really must discuss body art and the Image You Want To Present To The World. This is part of the same conversation as Clothes With Holes or Obvious Stains. AKA my one real moment of teen rebellion against my mother.
Those who have seen my left ankle might think it pertinent to ask whether my real tattoo was also a moment of teen rebellion.
Not so much. I told her beforehand, and it was the first thing I purchased on her credit card.