What's with the shorts??!!!

If there is a God, I would like to thank Him for bestowing upon me the ability to find humour in absolutely everything. It could be the tinest little thing and I find it hilarious. I have been finding just about everything's been cracking me up lately and I love it.

I also love not having a job. I keep getting bills in the mail and laughing because there's really no way in hell that I can pay them. Maybe I've just gone completely insane. Who knows? As of late, I've been making Seinfeld episodes out of my life. Hence the title. Hilarious.

I love the fall. I just wanted to through that in there. I love sweaters and I think that this is why it's my favorite season. Also, when the weather is just crisp enough, it's always fun going for walks and crunching all the leaves. So romantic *tears*.

Here's a treat.

To Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


Thanks for the laughs

Christmas Beatin'

For those of you who may not have heard, I'm back in PEI, back in school and, back in the dorms. Life is great. I actually have it pretty sweet. I don't have a job or anything, and I'm getting really lazy and I love it. The only problem is money, so I might get a job that offers like ten hours a week. Woo

I'm hanging out in a biology office reaping the benefits of the net. This is great. I love being in arts for one reason and one reason only - Spark Notes. Comprehending Mary Shelley's Frankenstein in under twenty minutes, rocks my fucking cock. Bring it on.

I have tried to go to a Ufit session here at the school. So far the score is Ufit-1, Amber-0. I had to leave halfway through and throw up. Ah well, being fit is not for everyone. I am planning on going back and making it to at least the second water break. Here's hoping.

Tomorrow is Bob's birthday and I don't know if I will be near the net. Happy 21st Birthday Bob!!

Are you guys picking me up today?

"At such a time it seems natural and good to men to ask myself these questions. What do I believe in? What must I fight for and what must I fight against?

Our species is the only creative species, and it has only one creative instrument, the individual mind and the spirit of man. Nothing was ever created by two men. There are no good collaborations, whether in music, in art, in poetry, in mathematics, in philosophy. Once the miracle of creation has taken place, the group can build and extend it, but the group never invents anything. The preciousness lies in the lonely mind of a man.

And not the forces marshaled around the concept of the group have declared a war of extermintaion on that preciousness, the mind of man. By disparagement, by starvation, by repressions, forced direction, and the stunning hammerblows of conditioning, the free, roving mind is being persued, roped, blunted, drugged. It is a sad suicidal course our species seems to have taken.

And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about."

Steinbeck, John. East of Eden. Penguin Books, New York. 1952. page 131

In the Know

So here I am at Tanner's Haven sitting behind a desk as bronze and as golden as ever on the verge of tears. There really is no need for it. There never was a need for it, yet all I can do is sit here and feel completely horrible. Lonliness, self-pity, self-annoyance, longing, strandedness, insanity. It's this melting pot of emotion that produces the blank face and empty eyes staring from the desk. I have no desire to talk about the weather or lotions.

Let me go back my yellow space down the hall, the first door sans lock to your left. This is my utopic escape, as box-sized and cluttered as it may be. Here I weep. Nobody will ask me questions and the need for explanation does not exist. I can close myself off and hide and cry and cry and then finally be whisped away to a place where these feelings do not exist.

The moment the crying stops, I am hard working and I believe, actually believe that anything can be accomplished. And then, I wake up and bike to the salon.

I call my friends and tell them that I've never been better and that living at home is the best idea that I've ever had.

And then, I sit behind a desk as bronze and as golden as ever on the verge of tears.

And there really is no need for it.