With this god-awful chest congestion thing I have going on, I sound like Lindsey Lohan. I swear, someone spilled a drink on my alcohol-monitoring bracelet. It wasn't my fault. I'm still the lovable moppet from "The Parent Trap," honest. On a quasi-related note, we were making jokes about how with my bandana-covered hair and hacking cough, I could be a cancer patient. *cough, cough* "All I want is one more day. One more good day..." *cough* Hi-larious. There is a special place in hell for people like us.
I might get a B on a mid-term. Maybe even a C. If I get A's on everything else, I'll still get A's overall, I think. Or maybe I won't. But either way, I'll still be me. And I'll be OK. You'll still like me.
I have to activate my shiny new credit card. I am slowly becoming part of the problem.
I have to go to sleep, stat. Spanish in nine hours...ay, mi vida. Punk isn't dead, it just spends more time conjugating verbs and goes to bed earlier.
No comments:
Post a Comment