I'm lying on my bed sans pants (after a stretch of the greyest, most depressing weather that's lasted for most of this year it got really nice but really hot on Tuesday) in a post-finals haze and not remembering a single thing about Lord Byron or late 19th-century novels. I'm not even sure I remember how to spell "Dracula" after writing it so many
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Fine weather - eternal bane of pants.
Yay for adventures and chillaxing and Dracula.
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