I could try to be creative and actually write something of some substance here today, but I'm not in the mood for any poetry or glitz. (unprotected text)
We don't apologize for lapses in posts in these here parts. Instead, we just note that our Lichtenstein calendars have flipped, and we can only assume that Mr. Bellamy wants us to update (Navy outfit sold separately).
So now we forgo all the literary graces as the tagline implies, and post something tangible, without a whole lot of crappy metaphors or poetic mangling. We also refrain from using the royal 'we' from now on, as my ego has shrunk and can no longer be referred to as a different entity.
I'm back at school, continuing to hate it, and still finding factual and judgement errors of my professors. But this is a whine-free post, so I'll keep from detailing the basic errors that certain professors are claiming as the truth. I've tagged along with some of the roommate's friends and watched them get drunk, and if it weren't for the fact that I did laundry yesterday, I doubt I've left my room, except to take a shower. Whine whine whine.
Time to stop pretending. I'm not really as stupidly depressed as the previous few posts imply, but then again, nothing else interesting happens to me, and 2:30 in the AM posts tend to get poetic for no apparent reason. Probably from reading too much jockohomo. I like to pretend that I'm a decent writer, worthy of being published, but then I read some of my previous posts, and realize that probably not.
So I'm watching that one football game with the roommate's cicisbeo. He's so creepy, full of lies and exaggerations, and I don't know if I believe a word he says. I sincerely doubt that the two teams spend their summers training at our school. The roommate won't be back for 3 hours at least, but his mistress (er... mister? There has to be a better word for the guy with whom the roommate is making a cuckold of his boyfriend) is making himself comfortable. One good thing about watching everyone get drunk a few nights ago is that most of the roommate's friends find him creepy as well. Thanks, Kahlua.
The roommate asked me today if the cicisbeo had ever hit on me. Obviously the answer is no, since no one ever hits on me. The roommate should have caught on to that by now. Duh.
In other news, I have a new guilty secret. I find myself not as obnoxiously disgusted by the new Britney Spears' song as I should be. I've even had the song stuck in my head without the desire to bludgeon my head with something large and metallic.
Now I do believe that the second chapter of my novel is calling to me. More later, hopefully more coherent and eloquent.
