The Anatomy of the Single Downtrodden Working Wench
I have now decided that if I am going to live my life in a continuance of this lonely existence, then I might as well live it how I please.
Since I'm on Spring Break, I intend to stay up into the wee hours of the night dribbling in my diary about how all I wanted was someone to see the play yesterday night with - but instead had all three spare tickets yanked from me and was then ditched by the only possible people I could have spent the endurance the hellishly long play with. Chris not included, of course. Seeing as how I had no expectations of his company or Kyle's. I was bored out of my bloody mind - thank god for Nick Shattuck and Ben Schwarts, whom I haven't seen in a long time. Ben Schwartz sure has changed. We were in Knowledge Bowl together in middle school. When I remarked, in what context I can't remember, that I have a pug, he said that he has one too. After that we simultaneously answered Nick's questions with precisely timed and samely phrased answers. It's too bad I didn't get his number, or any real clue that he was intersted at all. Thank you imagination for your always enjoyable, no matter how frivolous, indulgences into fantasy.
So anyway, as I was saying. So far my Spring Break has been glorious - I've eaten, slept, eaten, slept, worked, eaten, worked, and slept. Oh...and I saw the most sadistically boring play in the world, while subjecting myself to the agony that is Justine Freese's vocal 'beauty'. Then today, I decided to work for nine hours and donate my meager earnings to the Save The Porpoise Fund. All the money goes to the food and winter clothing of a certain large beached porpoise who happens to not only have a keen likeness to me in manners and grace, but also habitates my bedroom, and shares the same body. Fancy that? I promptly followed my somewhat random, but always thrilling, bout of productivity with my own rendition of bunny slippers, a giant sweatshirt, a large bowl of ice cream, some kleenex, and the second installation of a very good Chick Flick series.
Expeditiously and circumevently thereafter, I began to ponder my sad term on this planet and absolved to recluse into my bedroom and read Jane Austen for the rest of my life. Or atleast until I am so sucked into the Victorian Era that I can no longer feel the affliction that is my nonexisting social or, perhaps both, love life. After some serious thought, regarding my saddeningly absent love life I have come to the conclusion that if I get emotionally laid, fucked, banged, or sexed up one more time I might just wither away and become a rotten old spinster. Then, when I've grown old and everybody asks why 'that lovely young girl with the keen sense of wit and intelligence' just up and disapeared, I can shout mentally at them - BECAUSE TRYING IS A WASTE OF TIME, YOU OLD BATS. AND ID RATHER GROW OLDER WITH MY SEVENTEEN CATS. Thus further proving my sad decline through the development of pitiful rhyming.
Now, I think I will crawl into bed with my rickety oil heater running and listen to some fourties jazz dame sing about true love. While I ponder just how plausible the entire concept really is, or rather - isn't.
Since I'm on Spring Break, I intend to stay up into the wee hours of the night dribbling in my diary about how all I wanted was someone to see the play yesterday night with - but instead had all three spare tickets yanked from me and was then ditched by the only possible people I could have spent the endurance the hellishly long play with. Chris not included, of course. Seeing as how I had no expectations of his company or Kyle's. I was bored out of my bloody mind - thank god for Nick Shattuck and Ben Schwarts, whom I haven't seen in a long time. Ben Schwartz sure has changed. We were in Knowledge Bowl together in middle school. When I remarked, in what context I can't remember, that I have a pug, he said that he has one too. After that we simultaneously answered Nick's questions with precisely timed and samely phrased answers. It's too bad I didn't get his number, or any real clue that he was intersted at all. Thank you imagination for your always enjoyable, no matter how frivolous, indulgences into fantasy.
So anyway, as I was saying. So far my Spring Break has been glorious - I've eaten, slept, eaten, slept, worked, eaten, worked, and slept. Oh...and I saw the most sadistically boring play in the world, while subjecting myself to the agony that is Justine Freese's vocal 'beauty'. Then today, I decided to work for nine hours and donate my meager earnings to the Save The Porpoise Fund. All the money goes to the food and winter clothing of a certain large beached porpoise who happens to not only have a keen likeness to me in manners and grace, but also habitates my bedroom, and shares the same body. Fancy that? I promptly followed my somewhat random, but always thrilling, bout of productivity with my own rendition of bunny slippers, a giant sweatshirt, a large bowl of ice cream, some kleenex, and the second installation of a very good Chick Flick series.
Expeditiously and circumevently thereafter, I began to ponder my sad term on this planet and absolved to recluse into my bedroom and read Jane Austen for the rest of my life. Or atleast until I am so sucked into the Victorian Era that I can no longer feel the affliction that is my nonexisting social or, perhaps both, love life. After some serious thought, regarding my saddeningly absent love life I have come to the conclusion that if I get emotionally laid, fucked, banged, or sexed up one more time I might just wither away and become a rotten old spinster. Then, when I've grown old and everybody asks why 'that lovely young girl with the keen sense of wit and intelligence' just up and disapeared, I can shout mentally at them - BECAUSE TRYING IS A WASTE OF TIME, YOU OLD BATS. AND ID RATHER GROW OLDER WITH MY SEVENTEEN CATS. Thus further proving my sad decline through the development of pitiful rhyming.
Now, I think I will crawl into bed with my rickety oil heater running and listen to some fourties jazz dame sing about true love. While I ponder just how plausible the entire concept really is, or rather - isn't.