22:07 - May 15, 2002
brain/watermelon
The scrapbook assignment has turned my brain into a watermelon, (that spits seeds when certain faces are made), kind of like weed, only less likely to go down Camille's throat and slightly more annoying. I said I wouldn't write, but he told me I should so this is what you all get.... writing when brain=watermelon. This much memoir-style project-ness is head overload; I will not photocopy anymore freshman year angsty poetry... right? Right. (although I am still checking spelling and grammar as I go along here, compulsively.) like a fucking English addict. I just tried to misspell a word and failed. Fayled. OK? Watch me try to delete that later, that one letter, later. I have to do some laundry first though, and no, oh no, oh no, I am not, I am going right to bed. When you need a camping backpack and firewood and laundry lint by Saturday, and you have a price limit on food, no less, there are more important things to worry about than... than... whatever I was complaining about. Laundry. The phone rang and it was my dad's boyfriend Bob. I told Bob something about hotdogs. Bob took that to mean I was sleeptalking. Good old Bob.

aqui no estan... accent marks. Where is the Haven Mac when I need it? Option E. As simple as that..

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