Well, since my forced cure I have to say that I’m a bit depressed. Freud has explained to me that it’s a side effect of the healing process. Apparently it’s normal because rhyming is fun and not rhyming... well, it’s just ordinary isn’t it?
For a long time I’ve been claiming that I can have an entire conversation in rhyme. For the hell of it, one night on MSN, one of my friends asked me to. So I did. The conversation lasted about an hour and at the end of it, I felt as thought I had in fact become Seuss. It’s ridiculously amusing and at the same time, an excellent mental exercise. It was suggested that I become a rapper. What would I rap about? I mean really? And my music videos? I don’t think my conservative views regarding dress lend very well to the genre. No one wants to see a girl in a turtleneck. Actually, I don’t think I own a turtleneck... My friend also suggested that I could befriend Eminem. To that comment all I have to say is: “I had to look him up in order to spell his name.” Although the candies are quite good. I don’t think they’re related.
While recovering from my near fatal condition, I’m referring to being stabbed in the ass by the way, I worked very hard on my term papers due in two days. So far I’ve discovered that Nazi doctors are bad. I knew that already. But now it is proven by people with degrees so it must be right. Now all I have to do is write the darn thing. It’s about how Nazi doctors were able to effectively reverse the tenets of the Hippocratic oath and kill people rather than heal them. I’m guessing that topic is also contributing to my less than giddy mood at the moment. I don’t know why, because they were all quite awful, but Carl Clauberg freaks me out more than the others. Maybe because he was specifically centered on sterilizing women and I can... I dunno... feel for the women he tortured. Anyway, enough of this topic.
The other term paper is on Coleridge and his use of the imagination in his poetry. Right now I’m imagining little homework fairies dancing about gaily as they do the work for me. I didn’t get one for Christmas even though I was very good and asked Santa very politely. It’s probably because of my various theories that Santa is actually a bad man. His name is an anagram for Satan and he can see me when I’m sleeping. What am I supposed to think? So I’ve resigned myself to settling for Meeko. Obviously Meeko’s no help either. He just falls asleep near my arm making it impossible to type. Right now he’s actually staring up at my bed longingly. HA! He shan’t get hair all over my new sheets! Again. It took forever to get it off last time.
What else can I pointlessly prattle on about? Oh, I know. Today marks my one hundredth post! Yeah, craziness! The girl who can’t keep a journal for more than two weeks has managed to blog everyday for one hundred days. Not to toot my own horn (though I totally am) but I’m quite impressed with myself. And surprised that there are people out there reading me nearly every day. Or maybe every day, I dunno. You tell me.