(no subject)
Everything in Beloit is melting, and everything looks like February and feels like March, but it's not. It's finals! finals! finals! and all the urgency and anxiety I should be feeling are oddly lacking and I don't care I don't care I don't care about goddamn Analysis of Variance or the symbolism of Harley's death or defrosting my mini-fridge.
All I want for Christmas is to give you something pretty, and to find fun plans for New Year's.
I'll be home come Saturday.
All I want for Christmas is to give you something pretty, and to find fun plans for New Year's.
I'll be home come Saturday.