Beware the Nuthatches

“Beware of the nuthatches,” my roommate says seriously.

“Oh no.”

“But there’s only three,” she adds, reassuringly. “This is a nuthatch behind me.” Apparently one of the museum-quality oil paintings hanging over her bed, all painted herself, has been one of this deceitful and alarming race of nuthatches the entire time.

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Progress update on brush lettering

I firmly and truly believe that practice makes perfect.

I am also horribly, horribly bad at practicing anything. Ever.

It has to be fun while I’m doing it, or the lizard brain says “um, no” and turns off all concentration. It’s a very unobtrusive button, and I usually don’t notice until I look up from my book and suddenly realize it’s three hours and four hundred pages later and what happened to music practice today?

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