Mine eyes have seen the glory...

Not really.

I haven't been writing blog entries because I haven't had essays to write and I haven't needed anything to distract me, see?

I wrote a poem for you though. It goes like this:
Sing, Sing, Singapore, knocking on the bedroom door.
Finn, Finn, Finnegan, lying on the bathroom floor.
Cock, Cock, Cockerel, nosing gently 'gainst the shore.
Whip, Whip, Whippoorwill, calling softly on the moor.
Pop, Pop, Poppycock, telling lies forever more.
Sick, Sick, Sycamore, rotting slowly to the core.

It's not a very good poem; it is longer than it needs to be and it doesn't make a lot of sense. I have no idea of whippoorwills actually populate the moor, but it's cool that the name "whippoorwill" has two Ws, two Ps, two Is, and two Os. It pleases me.

and Honey Lou, the Bard of Beanwater (and my roommate) said:
"The vagina is like a rose made out of rotting meat. Maybe Pastrami."

and I told Jessica, Michelle, and her roommate that I preferred dead dogs to live ones because they were calmer.
Who says shit like that? I'm repulsive and very much on the edge of psychosis. Of COURSE I prefer living animals. Only a freak would say they prefer dead ones. The living ones are much preferable; you can hear them whimper when you bite into them.

Oh, sorry.

I mean they're really cute and cuddly and deserving of love, affection, and respect...just like all human beings. But not cows, because I'm totally going to Farren's with Jessica on Tuesday after my last final.

I am thirsty. And Weird.