Schnooples.
I think too much about things I can't (and probably shouldn't) articulate. And since I shouldn't, I will. I miss my Dad. There, I said it. There's no wall calendar in my dorm, yet I'm entrenched in the perennial melancholy that creeps up on me in February. I don't know what the fuck T.S. Eliot was talking about when he decided that April is the cruelest month. I guess all poets are stuck in their own super-special figurative space shuttles, exploring the cosmos for nonsensical similes and metaphors. Speaking of which, I wonder if Bard Papers is going to print any of the dreck I submitted last semester. Mimi might know. Ack, I'm blathering. But that's what LiveJournal is for. I blather because there's no chance for a generic soma holiday. I'm wearing my Dad's cashmere sweater. It doesn't smell like him anymore; it's become mine. So it smells like vodka and pathos. Hah! What does pathos smell like? As soon as I figure it out, I'm going to concoct a marketable fragrance. Pathos: a scent for the discontent.
Last night, Jon told me that getting attacked by a platypus is one of the most excruciating assaults a human could endure. I don't care; I still think platypi are cool. And even if I do get my ass kicked by one of the aforementioned monotremes, I'll just make shirts that say, "I Got Bitch-Slapped By a Platypus!" And people will be so amused, they'll wear the shirts instead of those bloody LiveStrong bracelets.
Oh, and this one's for Mark:Whooooo! (They can't spell or punctuate')
Last night, Jon told me that getting attacked by a platypus is one of the most excruciating assaults a human could endure. I don't care; I still think platypi are cool. And even if I do get my ass kicked by one of the aforementioned monotremes, I'll just make shirts that say, "I Got Bitch-Slapped By a Platypus!" And people will be so amused, they'll wear the shirts instead of those bloody LiveStrong bracelets.
Oh, and this one's for Mark:Whooooo! (They can't spell or punctuate')