Straight No Chaser

For Brittany, Who Has Time for Looooong Stories

also in the basket are champagne flutes, a bottle of apple cider, a russell stover's sampler and a chain of durex condoms, none of which will ever get used, because none of my stupid friends use condoms. tickets to a party. faux grass, like what they use at easter. color me delighted. degradation, i guess, is in the eye of the beholder. and, like aaron says, when repeated that many times, the word starts to lose all meaning. i think he meant it literally, but it works the other way too. he's deep like that.

two-thirty crept up on me, this time around. no class tomorrow, so there's really no good reason to go to bed, plus i'm still cranked up on cinnabon-flavored coffee, and i never got around to those collages, yesterday. i do, however, have the migraine to end all migraines, only recognizable as such because it's making me nauseous, which regular headaches don't. a slight case of the chills. the frequent need (and inability) to sneeze. we could always just speed things along with a wrecking ball.

i don't think i'm going to have kids, because if i were to have kids, they'd almost inevitably grow into college students, and college students are what's wrong with the world. and i don't make that statement from some pedestal of maturity, either. i'm very much included within that generalization. i'm what's wrong with the world. i know i'm too hard on myself. i don't see any other way to be. i keep messing up.

i kind of hate chick flicks, myself, with a few glaring exceptions, so i see no reason males should ever be forced to endure them. that's my stance on men and chick flicks. and on disillusionment, all i can think to say is that "disillusionment" would be the perfect alternative name for this journal. melancholy and trite.

the long story isn't really that long. but it ends with a basket full of things i don't want, and a jacket that smells like cigarette smoke.