It's not the side effects of the cocaine. I'm thinking that it must be love.
Wahhh! I don't want to go to work. I managed not to mope around today dreading it, but in approximately five minutes I must don the dreaded green polo again and haul my ass over to S&S a.k.a. Hell On Earth. I was going to take some pride in my appearance and shower this morning, but I watched FIddler on the Roof instead. Shower will have to wait until tonight in order for its purpose to be successfully defeated. At least it won't be insanely busy for most of my shift. At least I hope not. I will pretend and maybe it will be true.
I can't wait until vacation. I can't wait to sleep until 10 and not have anything to do all week and hang out with people I never get to talk to anymore. It will be utterly marvelous. I don't understand why Ms. A feels the need to assign two projects at once and then tell us they are due the day after we get back from vacation. What the fuck, Alissa? The fact that it is a Hamlet project brings it back a couple of steps on the Path To Utter Shit, but it is still more than halfway there. I love complaining. It is cleansing.
I've been doing a lot of writing and a scary amount of piano this week. And reading absolute trash, but it's hilarious trash. The Historian is too big to take anywhere without a) straining my back and b) looking like a pretentious idiot. So I must turn to very light trash books that make me look totally unpretentious and also very dim. This is why Vassar wants no part of me. The fine print on the bottom of the application actually said, "All applicants must have the entire works of Geoffrey Chaucer memorized or they will have to go and fuck themselves." Bitches and hoes.
I can't wait until vacation. I can't wait to sleep until 10 and not have anything to do all week and hang out with people I never get to talk to anymore. It will be utterly marvelous. I don't understand why Ms. A feels the need to assign two projects at once and then tell us they are due the day after we get back from vacation. What the fuck, Alissa? The fact that it is a Hamlet project brings it back a couple of steps on the Path To Utter Shit, but it is still more than halfway there. I love complaining. It is cleansing.
I've been doing a lot of writing and a scary amount of piano this week. And reading absolute trash, but it's hilarious trash. The Historian is too big to take anywhere without a) straining my back and b) looking like a pretentious idiot. So I must turn to very light trash books that make me look totally unpretentious and also very dim. This is why Vassar wants no part of me. The fine print on the bottom of the application actually said, "All applicants must have the entire works of Geoffrey Chaucer memorized or they will have to go and fuck themselves." Bitches and hoes.