brrr, it's cold in here, there must be some ENG 345 New York Poets of the 1950's in the atmosphere
I'm sitting in my room in a pair of shorts and a tank top quietly freezing because I finally got around to doing laundry and thus every article of clothing that I own exclusive of said shorts and tank top is in the wash. I have vacuumed, I have scrubbed, and have even wondered vaguely where the hell my other pair of size 6 knitting needles is. I shall do work, but for now I will ponder upon this: I am in a class for the Victorian novel, and thusfar almost all of these books have included an eighteen year old girl who ends up getting married after the abyss of intellectual indignation and emotional doubt and what can only be termed as absolute sexual panic. So. WHERE IS MY SEXUAL PANIC, PEOPLE?
DO YOU HAVE IT, MOTHERFUCKER?
In other news, I think my iPod, brave little toaster that it is, may have finally reached its breaking point. After having been dropped onto slate, marble, concrete; after having been *split open and then shoved back together*, the Little iPod That Could has suddenly decided to have...battery issues? What the fuck is this?
DO YOU HAVE IT, MOTHERFUCKER?
In other news, I think my iPod, brave little toaster that it is, may have finally reached its breaking point. After having been dropped onto slate, marble, concrete; after having been *split open and then shoved back together*, the Little iPod That Could has suddenly decided to have...battery issues? What the fuck is this?