My Girlfriend Thinks That...
These desks in the computer lab at BG are comfortable.
Please let me explain that I don't sit at a desk the 'right' way. I sit with my feet up, the chair twisted funny, my head cocked and one arm on the desk. Sometimes all at once.
APParentLY I am not in the majority. Damn it! These desks were built for straight people! (I mean people who sit straight, of course.)
It has recently come to my attention that people (by which I mean... People.) are reading my journal. This prospect has rendered me incapable of writing anything for long periods at a stretch. I have found that prescription drugs let down the hair of my social commentary muse... Due to the side effects however, (death, permanent brain damage, pregnancy and scratchy throat) the literary muse decided to shave her head and thus render me helpless of constructing sentences that consist of more than three syllables.
This, however, is not the primary difficulty. My group of little acting kiddies (the average age being 15) are preparing to perform their (mostly my) rendering of A Midsummer Night's Dream, by W. Shakespeare. D'ya think he refered to himself as 'Dub-ya', like some other promenent figures I could name? (It would be the stuff of irony, that's fer sure.)
The kids bustle around, preparing themselves psychically, grinding the Shakespearian language to a fine powder, and very literally driving me out of my mind. (I did nearly lose it when one of the girls pronounced 'wonton' 'won-ton'. ...'And ere a man hath power to say... Anybody got a craving for Chinese?'...)
This is a very standard procedure for being deemed an 'acceptable' director, so I must struggle on with my weary pronunciation and staging abilities.
Please let me explain that I don't sit at a desk the 'right' way. I sit with my feet up, the chair twisted funny, my head cocked and one arm on the desk. Sometimes all at once.
APParentLY I am not in the majority. Damn it! These desks were built for straight people! (I mean people who sit straight, of course.)
It has recently come to my attention that people (by which I mean... People.) are reading my journal. This prospect has rendered me incapable of writing anything for long periods at a stretch. I have found that prescription drugs let down the hair of my social commentary muse... Due to the side effects however, (death, permanent brain damage, pregnancy and scratchy throat) the literary muse decided to shave her head and thus render me helpless of constructing sentences that consist of more than three syllables.
This, however, is not the primary difficulty. My group of little acting kiddies (the average age being 15) are preparing to perform their (mostly my) rendering of A Midsummer Night's Dream, by W. Shakespeare. D'ya think he refered to himself as 'Dub-ya', like some other promenent figures I could name? (It would be the stuff of irony, that's fer sure.)
The kids bustle around, preparing themselves psychically, grinding the Shakespearian language to a fine powder, and very literally driving me out of my mind. (I did nearly lose it when one of the girls pronounced 'wonton' 'won-ton'. ...'And ere a man hath power to say... Anybody got a craving for Chinese?'...)
This is a very standard procedure for being deemed an 'acceptable' director, so I must struggle on with my weary pronunciation and staging abilities.