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