Spoonful of sugar...

Oh exams.. you thought you could break me? DENIED. My sanity is bruised and whimpering but whole! My escape from Alcatraz came none too late, keeping me from attempting to recreate the final scenes of Armageddon in my living room. Oh, this unusual sense of joy. Where have you been? Quaking under my bed while I sweated and slaved and swore my way through 16 days of anxiety probably. Even the snow outside (freaking April) cannot dampen my spirits. I am the epitome of calm. Sigh... Peace... A generous helping of Ativan.
All is well. And self-medicated.

The Seven Year Itch.

If a four year undergraduate degree were a marriage I would be screwing my blonde 24 year old secretary. Using this scenario, I have reached sixth-year-and-three-hundred-and-sixty-fourth-day and have plans to take out a payment program on a 2004 Porsche Carrera GT. Unlike the first year itch which came with a medicated cream, the is no relief for the discomfort of the third year itch. For some, this phenomena is characterized by a desire to leave hearth, home and textbooks behind to find freedom in the form of a treehouse in a British Columbian redwood forest and refuge in the arms of a strapping yet sensitive lumberjack named Pete. Symptoms include a limited attention span and the swearing vocabulary of syphilis ravaged sailor on leave.



Save me Pete.

I am Joe's Grinding Teeth

Clicking laundry machine, dishes in the counter, mold in the bathroom.
I am Joe's pulsing vein.
New professor, assigned three weeks from the end of term.
I am Joe's twitching eyebrow.
Cable bill, water bill, gouged by the rent check but the front step is crumbling.
I am Joe's pulsating ulcer.
The back door jams, probably because the foundation of the house is splitting.
I am Joe's rising blood pressure.

circle of life

Hey gigantic bunnies... Any chance you could stop fornicating on my lawn? I know, I know... Continuation of the species, I get it already. Go knock your furry boots on the neighbours lawn.