And You Want To Be Dressed In Poetry

Alas. I insist on attempting to transcribe my soul into a word document once more.

Today, everything I'm wearing is grey. I really hope that's not a metaphor, but it kinda seems like it might be. School seems hardly bearable... but once the caffiene kicks in, I bet I'll feel better and change into some color.

Venti white mocha nonfat no whip? You bet your four bucks I went there.

I never have much to say, but it doesn't seem to stop me from writing a lot. Most people tell me that's the reason that they can't write. They don't have anything to say. The real issue is that they might not want everyone to know their thought process. I think that might be all writing is: revealing your complex thought process through chains of meaningless sentences that more or less give meaning to your life. I guess that's my trade. Quantity over quality, and that's how we gain the freshman fifteen. No one tells us when to stop. We need to stop ourselves.

So, I guess it's my turn to figure out how to limit the words I type. Not only do I want to limit the number, I would really appreciate an increase in their quality, as well.

Ugh. I can literally feel the caffiene surging through my veins. I know that sounds a little off, but my face flushes for a bit while it's kicking in and I'm smiley for the few hours the kick lasts, kinda like alcohol or skipping physics.

and i am weaving dreams,
and you are singing hymns,
and we, as a pair,
could not very well care
less about something outside these sheets.