The forecast for November is particularly...discouraging, mainly because I foresee an incredible lack of sleep. And "walk around the neighborhood, with or without stupid dog, and muse about life" time.
Brent, I am going to be so sick of you. I'm sure the feeling will be mutual.
David and Keegan, you too. And yet we choose to eat lunch together...I think we have masochistic tendencies. Or maybe that's just me.
I have an inclination towards starting sentences with conjunctions.
Forensics is going to eat me alive. Thank you, triathlon. Thank you so much. It only helps that my primary event is extemp, which requires constant research/reading/skimming and pretending I understand things. Oh, I love it so.
I really do. This comes back to the masochistic thing.
And show choir. Because some people believe that I have no life outside of show choir. This is obviously Mrs. Ritchie syndrome, which is apparently contagious. Oh God.
And college. And senioritis. And falling prey to Mr. Mercer's incredibly sadistic tendencies.
What is it with pain that we find so alluring?
(Hey. "Matriculate" is a transitive verb. Did you know that?)
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