every hour. every day.
Boooo!! I feel crappy! My entire apartment is coughing right now, while I sit and chug my grande latte, contemplating how reading a good book in bed would be so much *healthier* than doing the poetry annotation I'm trying to avoid...
That's not to say I don't rock at English sometimes. We were reading Keats this morning and I totally engaged in intellectual battle with the crazy, middle-aged Asian woman who always sits in the front row, spouting out broken, unintelligible opinions about poems as her Jordache acid-wash clad butt bounces up and down excitedly. "NO! YOO AUR ONG!" she jerked back at me! T'was a match of wits, in which I reigned victorious -- or rather, in the end the professor agreed with me. He looks like Michael Stipe when he smiles.
John Keats died when he was only 26. That's so hot (and, of course,tragic). I wish I could have known him. I wish he could have wooed me with his suggestive talk of flower sex. Sighhh...
That's not to say I don't rock at English sometimes. We were reading Keats this morning and I totally engaged in intellectual battle with the crazy, middle-aged Asian woman who always sits in the front row, spouting out broken, unintelligible opinions about poems as her Jordache acid-wash clad butt bounces up and down excitedly. "NO! YOO AUR ONG!" she jerked back at me! T'was a match of wits, in which I reigned victorious -- or rather, in the end the professor agreed with me. He looks like Michael Stipe when he smiles.
John Keats died when he was only 26. That's so hot (and, of course,tragic). I wish I could have known him. I wish he could have wooed me with his suggestive talk of flower sex. Sighhh...