(no subject)
Roses are red, violets are blue,
I wrote this LJ entry just for you.
I'm so bored that I'm resorting to something that I haven't done in months--blogging. Besides the sleeping hella hours a day, working even more hours, and the occasional reading of a young adult fiction novel borrowed from the library, life is pretty stagnant. Most people get excited and joyous whenever they go home for Christmas break, and though it has it's high points, I'm definetely ready to head on back to school. This has been a well recieved break from classes, but after a good week of just Angela, Ricky and Sue, I'm ready to book it up north and kick it with my Murray friends. The only thing that makes Paris even halfway bearable is the old friends from high school. I suppose it wouldn't be SO bad if there was something for us all to do, but alas, there is not. Anytime between high school graduation and retirement, I would not recommmend Paris, TN as a place to live and raise children. So, peeps, call me, text me, snail mail me. . . whatever it takes--GET. ME. OUT. OF. THIS. HOUSE. I'm not used to this constant state of blah and if I'm not driving my mother/grandmother on their errands, working extra hours because random people call in, or being irritated by my father, I'm sure I'm doing the usual--nothing.
I wrote this LJ entry just for you.
I'm so bored that I'm resorting to something that I haven't done in months--blogging. Besides the sleeping hella hours a day, working even more hours, and the occasional reading of a young adult fiction novel borrowed from the library, life is pretty stagnant. Most people get excited and joyous whenever they go home for Christmas break, and though it has it's high points, I'm definetely ready to head on back to school. This has been a well recieved break from classes, but after a good week of just Angela, Ricky and Sue, I'm ready to book it up north and kick it with my Murray friends. The only thing that makes Paris even halfway bearable is the old friends from high school. I suppose it wouldn't be SO bad if there was something for us all to do, but alas, there is not. Anytime between high school graduation and retirement, I would not recommmend Paris, TN as a place to live and raise children. So, peeps, call me, text me, snail mail me. . . whatever it takes--GET. ME. OUT. OF. THIS. HOUSE. I'm not used to this constant state of blah and if I'm not driving my mother/grandmother on their errands, working extra hours because random people call in, or being irritated by my father, I'm sure I'm doing the usual--nothing.