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My shoes squeak when I walk… a lot, and people notice. It doesn't matter what I do to try to make them… well… not squeak. They will squeak, and my coworkers will comment. Fortunately, it's not ticking anyone off, but people do feel the need to say something: secretaries, assistants, my boss, my boss's boss's boss, other people's bosses have all said something at one point or another.

Today, someone, who I've never met before, mentioned that I wore “Nurse Ratched shoes” today. I chuckled.

When I think of Nurse Ratched, I don't think of squeaky shoes. First, a confession: I never read One Flew Over The Cookoo's Nest, but I have seen the film, so that obviously counts. Anyway, the definition of a famous person (at least my definition of a famous person) is someone who has their own Wikipedia article about them. Nurse Ratched is famous… and she's not even a real person. Her Wikipedia article describes her as a “cold, sadistic and passive-aggressive tyrant… the stereotype of the nurse as a battle axe.” My coworker's comment conjured up images in my mind of someone else that I once knew who also was a “cold, sadistic and passive-aggressive tyrant.”

When I think of that description, I think of the dean of students at my alma mater. I'd go into details, but I don't care to write too much. I remember having to sit in his office listen to him make up bullshit about how all the crap that he was putting me through was somehow my fault while blaming me for continuing to persist when I refused to submit myself to his “help”. It speaks badly to your competence when you make a situation worse that would have been fine if you would have done nothing.

You'd think that after four years it would stop bothering you, but you can't force yourself to stop reliving the experiences in your dreams. If it were that easy, I'd be happy, but I have to wake up and live with the thought that he never understood and won't understand. He said that he was sorry for the way that things turned out. What a load of bullshit—taking the easy way out.

I really wish that I could write about certain things that are on my mind. The problem is that when I write things about people, people get upset, so I can't write things.

If I can't write things, why do I have a blog again?

I will watch baseball. I will watch hockey. I will watch football. I will watch tennis. I will watch soccer. I will watch horse racing. I will watch volleyball. I will watch golf. I will watch lacrosse. I will watch curling. I will watch running. I will watch rugby. I will watch bicycling. I will watch figure skating. I will watch cricket. I will watch badminton. I will watch bobsledding. I will watch boxing. I will watch skiing. I will watch croquet. I will watch fencing. I will watch rowing. I will watch darts.

I will not watch basketball.

Paper has always been my lover. There exists a distinct place in my heart and soul that can be satisfied by no other. She is the love of my life. Since I was little, I have possessed an unhealthy fondness for Paper. As I grew older, I found comfort in her warmth as I kept her close to my heart. She and I would be seen in public, both of us unashamed and flaunting our love for one another. At night, it was too common to see us inseparable as I would be engrossed in all the attributes that made her beautiful as I ran my fingers through Paper's razor thin pages. Paper is beautiful; Paper is refined; Paper is elegant.

I was convinced that I would always be content with Paper. Until, one day, I met another. Her name was Kindle. Where Paper was beautiful, Kindle was sleek and sexy. Where Paper was refined; Kindle was enchanting. Where Paper was elegant; Kindle was seductive. There was no temptation at first as I mocked Kindle's advances. I was content with Paper and happy to have her as my lover. However, at time went by, I grew weak and Kindle's temptations grew stronger and more seductive. Her alluring advertisements gnawed at my heart—the seat of my emotions. I justified my actions as curiousity, but I was already in too deep. Kindle and I had consummated our relationship. I had betrayed Paper in the worst possible manner. However, in the course our secret tryst, I found myself being satisfied in ways that Paper never could. I remember a sense of worry that I felt as I lay there in the dark with Kindle to comfort me. However, I was still at a loss as far as what to do.

Maybe I'm overthinking this?