Wednesday, December 3, 2008

The Sixteenth: Not the Intended One

I've been slacking again. Looking at pictures on flicker led me down a rabbit hole of independent photographer websites. Not much good coming from that I'll tell you what. This was cool, took up way too much of my time.
There is a certain time at night past which I become unintelligible. Friends and boyfriends can all attest to the fact that my brain gets mush when I'm tired. I'll stay up late, prove myself, and party with the big boys, I'll just be partying in baby talk. Giggling and making false accusations, undertaking endeavours I have no intention of dealing with for more than a few moments but which should really take much longer, bumping into walls, people, and pets all are things I do when sleepy. Tomorrow morning I will be better. I will get more done. I will be productive and efficient and ruthless in the pursuit of this success. The success this blog is titled after. What will happen to us once tomorrow has faded? Will we still be friends in school on Monday? That is to be seen. I think so. Don't listen to me know though, its getting late and my ass is as numb as my eyeball by now.
In other news we shall start the rundown of unimportant things on my mind to fill space before I retire for the evening. My mouth tastes like garlic. I haven't spoken and are therefore not concerned with the odour of my breath but still am totally grossed out on the inside. My teeth are moving. The retainers that I promised to wear for years and years till my chitlits be strait as a fence post have slipped out of my mouth and into the recesses of existence. Ever so slowly the bastards are moving back into those cursed positions I went through so much pain to annihilate. Futile, all is futile. Let's go live in the woods and eat moss and sleep in trees shall we? Then I wont have to worry so much about the state of my chompers. There is also a sore developing in my cheek, and my lips are chapped and cracking. My mouth is having a hard time. Too bad body parts can't be sent on vacation. My knees would be off to the Bahamas in a heartbeat. Those poor joints are getting old and grumbling as often as if I had an old man strapped to each leg. Speaking of that, did you know Thoreau did not respect his elders? He has a whole few paragraphs on it in the first chapter of Walden. My knowledge of italics is a complete farce; I just throw them around when it pleases me, with hardly any rhyme or reason... the respect shown to their proper placement in classes is only to avoid scoldings. Speaking of that, I have to write a work cited page. I haven't a clue where to begin. All I did in my essay was quote dead philosophers and call it support. Eh, good thing I didn't use all those extremely enjoyable but poorly attributed quotes that are constantly floating around on the internet. *lightbulb* The internet is mostly just a big gossip ring isn't it?! How terrible. I would imagine Emily Post turning over in her grave... or doing something else more refined to show displeasure. Ew I've started talking about the undead. Time to sleep, or try to distract my mind from the thought of petticoats and rotting flesh, or call Ryan, or read more of Henry's sordid thoughts... Good night world, and Good night dear readers.

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