One Final Left, and Gerard

That is correct I have one final left. Why then, you may ask yourself, am I writing a new post on my blog? The answer is simple and I will endeavor to explain.
The only final I have left is my Spanish grammar class. It's not that I am a Spanish genius that needn't study at all for his tests, and I'm definitely not so completely overcome with disillusionment that I can't bear the thought of studying but one minute more. I merely have no desire to study for Spanish. That's all. I certainly don't have memorized the seven different uses for se nor the accompanying flechitas, but it really isn't necessary. Just moment ago (I'm in the library having just come here from work to study for this final before going to the testing center) as I was looking over my grades for my Spanish class I found that I had an A-. As I did some simple math to figure out what kind of grade I could end up with depending on the outcome of the final I found that even if I don't miss one of the 150 questions, I have no hope of raising that A- to an A. Secondly, I need only get 102 of the 150 questions right, a mere 68%, to keep that A-. While I'm not a Spanish whiz, I'd like to think that I'm at least 68% fluent, and as such I shan't worry too much about studying. Don't get me wrong, study I shall, and with very earnestness, but not to the point of worrying myself and causing myself nightmares. (Those lucky souls that are lucky enough to know me well know that there is very little in life that worries me to that extent...at the moment the only thing that comes to mind is having a T-REX chasing me and Suzy and Ashley and Heather and Scotty down Redwood Road as we try frantically to get to the safe and friendly confines of the chicken coops behind Grandma Turner's house. Yeah, that would have me a bit nervous.)...(That was a recurring dream I had as a wee tike...and in case you didn't know, dinosaurs aren't real.)
Anyway, the point of this blog...oh how I hate that word...post is to relate an experience I had earlier today. As I was being introduced to a most incredible sandwich (steak and cheese...really quite good) this afternoon by a girl with whom I work named Kimi, I happened to reach my hand into the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt. The hooded sweatshirt in question happens to be the one that I received when Heather and I traded years ago because mine was much to small. The one Heather gave me then, is now much too small as well and I rarely wear it.
Anyway, as I thrust my hand into the pocket seeking a warm refuge for my hands, I happened upon a small object that I didn't recognized by mere tactile investigation. As I pulled it out under visual scrutiny, with much wonder and a bit of trepidation, what should emerge but a small plastic frog. How long that frog has resided within the confines of that pocket I know not, but I got to thinking about it a little bit.Lately I've pondered the fact that everyone around me has a story to tell. That story, in reality, is a cumulation of many many stories. Among those stories I imagine that absolutely everyone has a few stories that will incite raucous laughter, a few that will cause the most hard-hearted of us to shed a few tears, and a few that will cause a least a moment's introspection. And so my question now was, What was this frog's story? If he had little plastic vocal cords and a little plastic hinge on his jaw, what wonderful yarns would he spin? How is the world perceived by a small frog? How is the world perceived by a small, plastic, frog? I don't know. But I would imagine that in this little guy's case, we'll call him Gerald to simplify matters, it would start off a little something like this:

The world hated Gerard. He didn't know why but it did. He did his best to do that which was expected of him, but how much can you do when you have no muscles, no skeleton, no nervous or respiratory systems but a large heart...

or maybe:

Gerald was created in the laboratory of a child-hating old man. Why this old man hated children is not that which is important, rather one must only know that he hated them. And this was no everyday hatred. It was a burning, loathing, white hot hatred…

or perhaps:

*blank stare* (plastic frogs are inanimate.)

Anyway, I think I'll keep thinking about Gerard. Questions such as Where has he come from and where will he go from here?, Why has he happened to end up in my hands?, What can I learn from him? are worthy of my musings.

...I had contemplated inserting some kind of deep comment about how we could all ask ourselves the same questions about our friends, family, and acquaintances, but I don't think that's necessary. There's much more to be learned from a small quarter-sized plastic frog.