(no subject)
pwah.
zomg.
why is it that I'm not even remotely sleepy yet? It's FOUR PM and I've been up ALL NIGHT without one call from that ethereal sleep-space of lore. I'm getting too good at these homework marathons.
Boys are cute ^_^ and they are EVERYWHERE. I'm lurking at Coffee Owe waiting for a splash of that gracious, gingered, solar powered gravy train.
I spy with my scrupulous eye, something... hip. Some highschoolite; presumably friendless, irksome in his newspaper waggling. My best interpretation of his appearance would be the debased progeny of Gothicism and The British Invasion. I look at him and get a little sad. He has been here for some time already, and come to think of it has been here almost every day this week (which, I lament, means so was I). He never sits, but would rather stand, though in my opinion it looks like it pains him greatly to do so. For so feebly posed a young man with such glaring restlessness, his propensity to call attention to himself inside the snug, bare-board cafe brings to mind some question. Is he really so friendless as I thought? Is it some emotional endurance test? Does socially crucifying himself give him a rush? Is he the bravest or the dumbest of the confused pubescent male faction? Or maybe, and I'm certain I would find this most delightfully decadent, maybe he has fallen in love with our own perplexing little parcel of doom and gloom and awkward loafing, who stands red lipped making terrible foam from behind a hardworked counter.
zomg.
why is it that I'm not even remotely sleepy yet? It's FOUR PM and I've been up ALL NIGHT without one call from that ethereal sleep-space of lore. I'm getting too good at these homework marathons.
Boys are cute ^_^ and they are EVERYWHERE. I'm lurking at Coffee Owe waiting for a splash of that gracious, gingered, solar powered gravy train.
I spy with my scrupulous eye, something... hip. Some highschoolite; presumably friendless, irksome in his newspaper waggling. My best interpretation of his appearance would be the debased progeny of Gothicism and The British Invasion. I look at him and get a little sad. He has been here for some time already, and come to think of it has been here almost every day this week (which, I lament, means so was I). He never sits, but would rather stand, though in my opinion it looks like it pains him greatly to do so. For so feebly posed a young man with such glaring restlessness, his propensity to call attention to himself inside the snug, bare-board cafe brings to mind some question. Is he really so friendless as I thought? Is it some emotional endurance test? Does socially crucifying himself give him a rush? Is he the bravest or the dumbest of the confused pubescent male faction? Or maybe, and I'm certain I would find this most delightfully decadent, maybe he has fallen in love with our own perplexing little parcel of doom and gloom and awkward loafing, who stands red lipped making terrible foam from behind a hardworked counter.