(no subject)
So, the other night I dreamed that I was in French class, with our new teacher. She had us all in those horrible conventional rows (not like the special double ones that we used to have), facing away from her desk. It was some new, small, cramped room, not the fun old one with curtains. And we were reading from these big square books of Italian poems, written in big multicolored font. Italian poems. We'd just go around the room, reading one line at a time, struggling to pronounce the Italian correctly. Seth Friedman was there (even though he isn't in French), and some random girl who I don't remember. B. Esty was in front of me, too, and she turned around and we had a whispered conversation in which we reminisced wistfully about the Jacques Prévert that Mme. Cox used to do with us. It was very, very sad. I woke up and just lay there for like twenty minutes thinking about all the fun, unusual things we did in that class that are irreplaceable.
Anyway, that was my melancholy rumination for the evening. Cheers!
Oh, and for those of you who are aware of
la_salade , I know I'm overdue for another page by now, but I haven't gotten around to drawing it yet. I procrastinate. I will draw it and get it up tomorrow.
♥ Marguerite
Anyway, that was my melancholy rumination for the evening. Cheers!
Oh, and for those of you who are aware of
la_salade , I know I'm overdue for another page by now, but I haven't gotten around to drawing it yet. I procrastinate. I will draw it and get it up tomorrow.
♥ Marguerite