As I sit here seething,
My heart tells me there is nothing more triumphant than leaving a trail of particularly bitter dust.

I'm working on it.
My portfolio for York, that is.

I'm typing in a particularly charming piece that I wrote at the end of last semester in various library-stolen sessions. Oh, and I also wrote a lot of it on the couches in the Rotman business building. They have the best couches anywhere and there are hardly ever people's bottoms on them.
And there's a Second Cup in their sunny sunken atrium!

How could I not pretend to be a business student?

What was I saying? My new years resolution is music. I hope I can uphold the virtues of music this year. But I think my true resolution is to get down to business. Things don't write themselves. I want to dive deep into a pile of books for a few weeks in research.

Cosette's constant slumber is envious. I'm trying to get ready in the mornings and she's just snoozing away, spreading her little allergens all over my sheets. she's sleeping right now. Her eye is a little bit open and it's kind of creepy.

I have a headache. I need less... typing. And fewer essays and fewer assignments. I wrote less and then changed it to fewer for correctness.

I need to clean my room and make it a viable workspace. But there is a large teapot in the middle of my floor. I'd like to know my deadline, please. Before Cosette turns it into a lair.

I'm up way too late way too often.

It's a good thing I'm somewhat productive, otherwise I'd be really upset.
I have the new score for The Blue Seal stuck in my head. Bah ba baaaaaaaa...

Now, getting down to the flesh of this post. the marrow inside the bone, the cream inside the cake, the head inside the hat.

Can anyone share with me a legitimate reason to go to the gym? I'm signed up at school. I paid for a semester. I haven't gone.

Grah. My tummy is a rumbly.
On the plus side, I finally got to read that play Andrew had been trying to lend me for about a year which was in Ethan's room for that duration. I won't comment on it. The play, not Ethan's room, though it is interesting. It's a good thing the girl he gives massages to doesn't read this.

(WAS! Was interesting. I haven't seen his new room)

I don't want to go to bed. It's too much trouble to brush my teeth and put on my jammies and wash my face.

I miss Mike's little dog, Licorice. Mike himself too, of course.

Is the subject of this post too dramatic? I think so. I cannot, however, motivate my mind to think of something equally accurate and less angsty. Is that the problem with teen poetry? Not the sentiment but the cliched expression?

I wrote poetry. Everyone did. Everyone had his or her little notebook to scribble lines in that are never to see the light of day. just don't call yourself a writer if that's all you do, you hear me countless internet profilers?

Speaking of hats. I got one. Now my head will be warmer. I was reading the kids section of the Toronto Star and they said that you lose 20-40% of your heat through your head. That's a lot. So I got a hat.

I was jammin' with Moolex earlier this eve. We were playing the keyboard. Well I was sucking, she was playing.
Sigh. Music, crawl back to me! I cannot reach that far under the couch!

I'm looking at my hat now. It's slightly folded. Looks like some sort of gathering of hatness.

I miss when I could just get up and slap on a uniform. All this pressure to be stylish is getting to me. Shut up, you know I'm innately stylish, but it still gets hard some times.

Whine whine whine wine.

I'll be nineteen in two months.

I feel like I should start posting every day. So that I can have some semblance of a record of my life with codes that I won't understand when I'm older. It's a silly idea. I'll try for today and perhaps move to written journal when I realize that I can't post what I want to for fear of being exposed down to my ratty slippers.
School! What a lovely waste of time that fluctuates between usefulness and uselessness, fun and folly, friends and idiots.
I can't get a hold of anyone that I need to talk to about tailoring my program.

I've found myself a new room to work in. It's the storage room upstairs with the record player. I can shut the door and not fall asleep and hopefully go mad. Mad to the point where hard work isn't a decision anymore, just a compulsion.

I'm having weird dreams about people I never anticipated dreaming about. Perhaps it is directly representative of having a life containing a quality I never thought I would obtain in terms of unfiltered, honest happiness.
It's like I've stripped the wood-panelling and shag carpeting out of an old den and am now lying on the unfinished concrete eating lollipops and constructing a puppet-theatre in the night.

I have to declare that I am in love with an old pair of slippers that I found in the basement. They are clean and keep my feet warm. So hush. I don't care that they're hideous.

It's really warm in my kitchen.

I want my mind to catch up with my life. It's escaping my grasp. My head scrambles every tme I try to figure out my class schedule or read something. I think it's got to do with my gut convincing me that I shouldn't be in the program when really, it'll be fun and useful and I'll learn a lot.
I just don't want to do all the work related to it and then find out it was a waste of time. It won't be, right? Studies develop your mind and sense of self regardless of their nature.

Do you ever wish that you had just a clean, dry, soft stretch of fabric that you could wrap yourself in? One that smells like laundry detergent and just came out of the dryer. Scratch that. A stretch of fabric covering a person that you can just bury yourself in. The days are too short. My eyes can't handle any more aimless people. They're clouding my haven.

This is not advertising space.
This is not a popularity contest.
If you think this is directed at you, you're wrong. It's directed at no one.



The waffle party today was quite enjoyable. I met some great people who I had only heard about before, and I ate a lot of twizzlers.

I don't really have much else to say. I wrote some of my feelings down where I thought it was appropriate to put them.

-M

RARRRRR!!!!

If you are reading only this, it means that you are either not a friend, not logged in, or have not added me to your friends list... yet.
Pick an option and remedy it or bathe in turtle water.
Unless you're one of the non-friends, in which case you can just bathe in turtle water regardless of subsequent action to reading this post.

-Moosha