the conclusions I sketch
"Uh-oh, sounds like someone's got a case of the Mondays."
Boy do I ever. You would too if you had to park past Rio Salado in one hundred degree heat.
I'm looking for someone. Maybe you know him. He's the mellowed-out nineties brother to eighties Punk Rock. That's right. Alt. Rock. Let's let him back into our hearts. Listening to the radio (96.9) on the drive home put me in the mood for some flannel and ripped jeans, not to mention old-school stronger-than-yo-mamma Starbucks coffee sipped cautiously out of a cup portraying a mermaid's naked breasts. When I got home I wanted nothing more than to bust out Insomniac and bob my head. Maybe a little Presidents of the United States of America for dessert. Mmmm.
Speaking of ripped jeans...Jason ripped mine. Actually, tore them to shreds. They now hang on his wall. A work of art.
They were useless anyway -- I ruined them with fake blood from a skit for an English class of mine. 321, to be exact. I played Tamora in Shakespeare's Titus. I was unbelievable. We got an A because of it.
Two boys have told me that I am "amazing" this week. I feel fantastic. And they haven't even seen my amazing breasts! I would blow their minds.
But, enough about you, let's talk about me.
My English 222 professor is an unhappy little man. He saw Jason and I kissing and got upset. "Get a room!" And he hated Sin City. What more evidence do you need?
So, the conclusion I draw from this entry? Me: fantastic. English Professor: emotionally stunted and bitter man.