28 July 2005

Poetry is the most forced jumble of words ever. It’s not that I don’t like poetry, I just don’t like how people think, “hey, I’m going to write a poem” — they should think “hey, this idea is beautiful.” Poetry should be natural. But everything always seems like it’s trying to be something. I guess I just don’t like how fake it is.

There must be a curse on me as well. I spend two hours delicately cleaning my baby, my Shela. And now, now this happens. All of this rain. I don’t mind rain, really. I just mind how it tampers with other things. Two hours in my lifeless life is an eternity and I dedicated it to washing my car. Ugh. There’s something that doesn’t love a car, I’d say. For a month, I’ve had both bird and squirrel blood all over my car (as if I hit a small child and he dragged in the left rear wheel for a distance), but as soon as I clean my girl, the rain comes in.

Really, that is my life. I can’t say that I really have one at the moment. I get up at 7:00 each morning, go to work by 8:00, work until 4:30, come home and grab lunch at 4:42, leave in three minutes, stay in school until 7:40, eat dinner at 8:00, do my homework until 2:00, and then sleep for five hours. God help me if I snap before the end.

Oh yes, and my birthday is coming up soon. Which means that I’ll have a slice of cake while I do my homework.

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