Hooray for a fucking write-off!
I have officially declared today to be a Fucking Write-Off. This means that I sit around the house listening to the new Blonde Redhead, Low, Cocorosie, and... um... Bright Eyes albums, and then eventually ooze down to the television set to eat unhealthy food and watch whatever dumb shit the glorious British TV stations are offering.
I know that it's Friday night, but Friday night is mine. Nobody fucks with my Fridays - I don't care how cute they are.
Last night I dreamt that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie moved themselves and their baby-farm to Canterbury. They lived in some enormous but unbelievably ugly 1950's-type monstrosity overlooking a swamp. For some reason I was friends with them and visited, and wondered how much money I could make if I sent the tabloids pictures of Brangelina's ass-ugly house.
Oh, and I also dreamt that all of the schmoops had mysteriously disappeared, and Katie (the course convenor) was all, "Holy shit, where did the undergrads go?" I posited that something akin to Picnic at Hanging Rock had occurred - that is, some overwhelmingly libidinous blob called to the undergrad population, and their ethereal sexuality bade them answer!
I can just see the tips of Canterbury Cathedral's spires from my study window. Living in an ancient English town like this in the springtime makes it obvious that pretty phrases like "under dreaming spires" actually have some basis in reality.
And LASTLY: I have this little tuft of hair at the very fore of my hairline that just always refused to dread, so I just cut it. It has never been even vaguely noticeable. But now, all of a sudden, it has turned freaking blonde of its own volition - well, not blonde as in blonde-blonde, but an extremely light brown. My hair is naturally dark brown, so it looks totally redonkulous. Why has it done this to me? I don't understand.
- JJJJS
I know that it's Friday night, but Friday night is mine. Nobody fucks with my Fridays - I don't care how cute they are.
Last night I dreamt that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie moved themselves and their baby-farm to Canterbury. They lived in some enormous but unbelievably ugly 1950's-type monstrosity overlooking a swamp. For some reason I was friends with them and visited, and wondered how much money I could make if I sent the tabloids pictures of Brangelina's ass-ugly house.
Oh, and I also dreamt that all of the schmoops had mysteriously disappeared, and Katie (the course convenor) was all, "Holy shit, where did the undergrads go?" I posited that something akin to Picnic at Hanging Rock had occurred - that is, some overwhelmingly libidinous blob called to the undergrad population, and their ethereal sexuality bade them answer!
I can just see the tips of Canterbury Cathedral's spires from my study window. Living in an ancient English town like this in the springtime makes it obvious that pretty phrases like "under dreaming spires" actually have some basis in reality.
And LASTLY: I have this little tuft of hair at the very fore of my hairline that just always refused to dread, so I just cut it. It has never been even vaguely noticeable. But now, all of a sudden, it has turned freaking blonde of its own volition - well, not blonde as in blonde-blonde, but an extremely light brown. My hair is naturally dark brown, so it looks totally redonkulous. Why has it done this to me? I don't understand.
- JJJJS