Her and her cigarettes.

Okay. This is another little experiment. But not really. I just said that to make you tingle in the best of ways?

Oh look, it's the end of all our days
Well I'm not leaving here without getting laid
Oh my, it's the end of this little world
But I'm okay, it's enough to feel grown

I'm calling this one "Let's Drop Acid" (only because that's the only thing I can come up with). I don't know why. It's about the end of the world. Of course you get recognition for giving me the idea. I'll finish this one. I swear on my dead wife.

I'm kinda sick of all these tiny lines I really like but am not motivated to stretch out into a song. Maybe in the end it's just because I don't try hard enough. I sit down for like all of a second and I'm defeated and will just move onto not writing. WRITE! WRITE! WRITE!! I'm tired of complaining about my lack of ability to write also.

I am convinced Dr. Enelow hates me with every fiber of his being. Like actually.

There's an Art History test tomorrow. I normally don't study for those, but I haven't been paying attention these last few Art History classes. Plus we have like a billion (please mail me that punch in the face now) French artists that we have covered. It's scary. STUDY STUDY STUDY!!!

That's the last huge hill before a three day weekend filled with not going outside and trying hard not to go into the city because I'm broke and don't really wanna hear Gambit's bad Cajun accent or see Wolverine's bad CGI claws...

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

-Allan