I had an upsetting dream last night where Hugh Laurie pretending to be one of my particularly unique English professors from college and somehow bullied me into a PhD program in Literary Criticism. We all know if I ever do get bullied into a PhD program, it's going to be in Wentzian Poetics, or maybe Emily Dickinson, but certainly never, ever Derrida.
Speaking of Wentzian poetics, sometimes I just want to find Pete Wentz, grab his face like an overemotional distant relative and spectacularly kiss his forehead. I mean, he gave us a secret album, wrapped up and done with the first single and a video before we even knew the hiatus was over, and it's a hell of a secret album, isn't it? Good that gets better with repetition, like those boys.
On this morning's to-do list: oh my god, who even knows. Listen to Frank Turner on repeat? Start that epic SGU podfic even though I never watched more than the pilot of the show and kind of resent it for trying and failing to be a younger and hotter reboot of the already perfectly entertaining franchise? Go out and get an iced pumpkin coffee the size of my head?
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