Midterms are my life.
You are what you eat. Or don't.
I had a Nutrigrain bar [strawberry] this morning in Mrs. Fuller's. It was lovely, especially because I had been feeling sick that morning (all nerves). I never used to have the constitution of an old man, but, after feeling sick on the morning of the anatomy midterm, this nerve related sickness keeps rearing its ugly, foul-tasting head. First day of school is a good example as is this morning.
Nevertheless, with my Nutrigrain bar to bolster me, I trekked on towards the MFoD. That's Math Final of Death for all you not acronym compliant people. However, thankfully, I wrote what I hope to be a kick English essay on that giant poem for the EFoSP (English Final of SemiPlague).
Also, at the rate at which I am going, I have the right to call both math and English finals. I should be able to maintain the same level of grades in order to not take one. I wasn't really all that concerned, but it is nice to know.
[Requiste link insert: quiero]
I have some poetry that I've written lately and I asked Mr. P-rella if I could give it to him to read. He said that he's copasetic with that momma jive so it looks like smooth sailing. (It should be noted that the words "copasetic with that momma jive" never passed through Mr. P-rella's lips, but I imagine that he would have said that if he were me. However, on that vein of thought if he were me I wouldn't have him reading the poetry that I had written because I would have already read it, having written it. It's a paradox. Amazing.)
My mom is laughing at my sister. Somehow she has gotten a baseball cap stuck to her head. Don't tell her I told. She'll be mad.
I napped from 3:30 to 5 PM today. Quite lovely. Well, not really. I woke up frantic and with nap-breath, but the fact that I slept is nice.
Now, I'll be able to add more power hours to my crazy study fest.
Remind me I have an essay to finish.
[Requiste link insert: Oh, Oprah!]
I think I'm going to bring in a box of kettle corn popcorn for my class to munch on during the final. It'll make the experience far more bearable to its participants, namely me.
To finish:
The auspicious ritual occured under the guise of a casual, sophmoric production of Harold and Kumar Go to Whitecastle, a film which shan't be analyzed in its entirety by me, but rather left to greater minds to dissect and muse over the film's vaunted purpose and place in film history (the crowd of critics having been assured that this cinematic classic would become a benchmark in the history of what is colloquially referred to as "slacker comedy", a genre that surely won't be so grossly underestimated in the future months as a vehicle for the artistic and social expression of the frustrated twenty one year old, a marginalized sector of society which finds its only outlet in the lowbrow comedy of the blue-collar worker).
I have no idea why I wrote that.
Goodnight.
I had a Nutrigrain bar [strawberry] this morning in Mrs. Fuller's. It was lovely, especially because I had been feeling sick that morning (all nerves). I never used to have the constitution of an old man, but, after feeling sick on the morning of the anatomy midterm, this nerve related sickness keeps rearing its ugly, foul-tasting head. First day of school is a good example as is this morning.
Nevertheless, with my Nutrigrain bar to bolster me, I trekked on towards the MFoD. That's Math Final of Death for all you not acronym compliant people. However, thankfully, I wrote what I hope to be a kick English essay on that giant poem for the EFoSP (English Final of SemiPlague).
Also, at the rate at which I am going, I have the right to call both math and English finals. I should be able to maintain the same level of grades in order to not take one. I wasn't really all that concerned, but it is nice to know.
[Requiste link insert: quiero]
I have some poetry that I've written lately and I asked Mr. P-rella if I could give it to him to read. He said that he's copasetic with that momma jive so it looks like smooth sailing. (It should be noted that the words "copasetic with that momma jive" never passed through Mr. P-rella's lips, but I imagine that he would have said that if he were me. However, on that vein of thought if he were me I wouldn't have him reading the poetry that I had written because I would have already read it, having written it. It's a paradox. Amazing.)
My mom is laughing at my sister. Somehow she has gotten a baseball cap stuck to her head. Don't tell her I told. She'll be mad.
I napped from 3:30 to 5 PM today. Quite lovely. Well, not really. I woke up frantic and with nap-breath, but the fact that I slept is nice.
Now, I'll be able to add more power hours to my crazy study fest.
Remind me I have an essay to finish.
[Requiste link insert: Oh, Oprah!]
I think I'm going to bring in a box of kettle corn popcorn for my class to munch on during the final. It'll make the experience far more bearable to its participants, namely me.
To finish:
The auspicious ritual occured under the guise of a casual, sophmoric production of Harold and Kumar Go to Whitecastle, a film which shan't be analyzed in its entirety by me, but rather left to greater minds to dissect and muse over the film's vaunted purpose and place in film history (the crowd of critics having been assured that this cinematic classic would become a benchmark in the history of what is colloquially referred to as "slacker comedy", a genre that surely won't be so grossly underestimated in the future months as a vehicle for the artistic and social expression of the frustrated twenty one year old, a marginalized sector of society which finds its only outlet in the lowbrow comedy of the blue-collar worker).
I have no idea why I wrote that.
Goodnight.