T-Minus 23 days until my subscriuption runs out...
Ugh, another morning. I am sick of my winter break. Classes dont start up until Thursday. I need to be regimented, dammit! If I ever become a billionaire playboy, I think I'll get a job at hardware store or something, just to keep my sanity.
It's been a slow weekend. Colder than a Christian's crotch in platinum panties (I'm all about equal opportunity). If I remember right, it averaged about 14 degrees during the day on Saturday, a little warmer, but not by much Sunday.
I'm seriously starting to think a bunch of my friends moved while I was in Oregon. Luke had mentioned something about moving to Westbrook at the beginning of the year back in November. I haven't seen him since late November because I was so busy with school and then preparing for my trip. His car hasnt been in his driveway since I got home, nor have his lights been on. Weird.
Lewiston is a fucking cold, lonely place when you've got nobody watching your back.
The Many and One, pro-diversity rally was pretty cool, though some of the entertainment was awkward at best. For example, one of the singers had only started singing and writing songs after September 11th. She'd only been writing a year? I'd never have guessed. She sang the word Harmony, or should I say Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ar-mo-oh-oh-oh-oh-neeeeeeeee at least forty times in the same song. Reminded me of some of the music teachers I had in the early 80s who were still fueled by the dying embers of "Free to be You and Me". You know the type, guys with bad, freshly cut shags, or women with really long, but really clean hair, tasseled suede vests, flowered shirts, faded denim bell bottoms, distinct smell that you would become quite familiar with after about the age of twelve, but at the time assumed was just like van stink or something, who play acoustic guitars with hula dancers taped on their cases, and teach you to sing a bunch of children's songs, then suddenly break into one of their own creation which even your six year old mind finds awkwardly terrible. Okay, maybe I am just projecting my own experience with Mr. Harris, the creepy post-hippie music teacher, but I'm sure a few others of you had similar experiences.
Ugh, another morning. I am sick of my winter break. Classes dont start up until Thursday. I need to be regimented, dammit! If I ever become a billionaire playboy, I think I'll get a job at hardware store or something, just to keep my sanity.
It's been a slow weekend. Colder than a Christian's crotch in platinum panties (I'm all about equal opportunity). If I remember right, it averaged about 14 degrees during the day on Saturday, a little warmer, but not by much Sunday.
I'm seriously starting to think a bunch of my friends moved while I was in Oregon. Luke had mentioned something about moving to Westbrook at the beginning of the year back in November. I haven't seen him since late November because I was so busy with school and then preparing for my trip. His car hasnt been in his driveway since I got home, nor have his lights been on. Weird.
Lewiston is a fucking cold, lonely place when you've got nobody watching your back.
The Many and One, pro-diversity rally was pretty cool, though some of the entertainment was awkward at best. For example, one of the singers had only started singing and writing songs after September 11th. She'd only been writing a year? I'd never have guessed. She sang the word Harmony, or should I say Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ar-mo-oh-oh-oh-oh-neeeeeeeee at least forty times in the same song. Reminded me of some of the music teachers I had in the early 80s who were still fueled by the dying embers of "Free to be You and Me". You know the type, guys with bad, freshly cut shags, or women with really long, but really clean hair, tasseled suede vests, flowered shirts, faded denim bell bottoms, distinct smell that you would become quite familiar with after about the age of twelve, but at the time assumed was just like van stink or something, who play acoustic guitars with hula dancers taped on their cases, and teach you to sing a bunch of children's songs, then suddenly break into one of their own creation which even your six year old mind finds awkwardly terrible. Okay, maybe I am just projecting my own experience with Mr. Harris, the creepy post-hippie music teacher, but I'm sure a few others of you had similar experiences.