Last week my dad started eating ice cream with his butter knife because he was too impatient to wait for a spoon. I said, "Dad, you could hurt your tongue, just wait," to which he replied, "It's no big deal; last week I ate my yogurt with a screwdriver." My dad is a retired electrical contractor, in case you might be wondering why he has screwdrivers, just, around. Anyway, that isn't what this blog is about.
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I was never the girl who had grand dreams about my wedding. There was that brief time in my early twenties where I was obsessed with bridal magazines, but judging by the accordion folders full of invitation samples, I think it was just more of an obsession with stationary. And markedly, the start of my fascination with fonts.
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I was born an innocent and trusting child. But somehow, somewhere, everything got all jacked up. And I don't have daddy issues. Or mommy issues. So you can shelve that hypothesis. As an eternal pessimist, I am particularly mesmerized by the messiness of life. And mine has been pretty messy. I
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