"'Truth is strange," you know, "stranger than fiction' - besides being more to the point" - Edgar Allan Poe

January 10, 2005

[Rumbling clouds, dark skies, a light wind across the desert]

Blogging is like revisiting an old song. It still sounds quite familiar, yet there's a lot you seem to have missed the last time around. Just so you know, Page and Plant are banging out "Babe I'm gonna leave you" in the background.

And yet I have nothing to write about. Everything's become so... so... [pauses. thinks. gives up] stale, y'know what I mean?

The college still smells the same, and the dust hangs around in low depressing clouds that smack your face when you try to avoid it, and leaves behind a line of sweat-caked dirt between the furrows of your forehead. It ain't pretty, folks.

I probably did something really stupid too. Some chick (a guy, as it turned out) posted some terribly obvious pieces of sarcasm on 'Free Speech..." and taking the bait, I became the green skinned monster Dr. Banner himself. It was vicious, I'm now surprised at the blood on my hands.

On a personal front, dad's majorly pissed with his only son. Censoring out the details, I'd just say that he's quite certain I'm going down the wastrel's path, one of sin and vice. Question- how do you covince a parent that you ain't doing so?

Also, Mr Shet has called him for a meeting. An actual Parent-teacher thing. Trust me, I have no clue what's going on.

Wow, in the past few hours, the entire ball of yarn has spooled out onto the frontyard, and my world is about to witness some major catastrophe. Like omens building up to he storm, I'm noticing how everything's crumbling around me. Scared; I am.

What would Mike Noonan do?