driven by my sister here, unafraid and unaware

Tonight's monotony has momentarily been mutilated! YAY ALLITERATIONS? Anyway. After several hours of particularly inspired procrastination (I began by leaving a bunch of frenetic LJ comments and eventually wound up discovering that I was The Most Inflexible Person On The Planet, as I evidently cannot: a) reach my foot behind my head, b) sit in the full lotus position for longer than two seconds, c) lick my elbow, d) touch my tongue to my nose, or e) adequately sing ballads bemoaning an attractive girl in my Spanish class, her vapidness, and her unfortunate love of Dan Brown), I settled down to write essays. It hasn't been fun, unless you count gratuitous exclamations of "COCKSUCKER!" aimed at the computer. I also somehow managed to slice open my left pinky finger. Nothing I do is ever less than hardcore, kids, even writing essays on Bradbury books.

SO, THE MOMENTARY MONOTONY-MUTILATING. It is, in all unexpectedness, thanks to my sweet little brother. This news is so earth-shattering, yes, that it merits a LiveJournal update, I promise. He, who blindly loathes everything in my musical library that does not involve AC/DC, likes a song by an indie band. IS THIS NOT HUGE? IT IS HUGE. DEMANDS FOR "INCREDIBLY DRUNK ON WHISKEY" DO NOT COME EVERY DAY, ALL RIGHT.

In even more fascinating news, aforementioned song just ended and aforementioned brother has just called someone on the phone and asked, "Who is this?" upon receiving an answer. I think I should be concerned, but I am too busy wondering whether Bradbury can touch his tongue to his nose to care.

driven by my sister here, unafraid and unaware

Tonight's monotony has momentarily been mutilated! YAY ALLITERATIONS? Anyway. After several hours of particularly inspired procrastination (I began by leaving a bunch of frenetic LJ comments and eventually wound up discovering that I was The Most Inflexible Person On The Planet, as I evidently cannot: a) reach my foot behind my head, b) sit in the full lotus position for longer than two seconds, c) lick my elbow, d) touch my tongue to my nose, or e) adequately sing ballads bemoaning an attractive girl in my Spanish class, her vapidness, and her unfortunate love of Dan Brown), I settled down to write essays. It hasn't been fun, unless you count gratuitous exclamations of "COCKSUCKER!" aimed at the computer. I also somehow managed to slice open my left pinky finger. Nothing I do is ever less than hardcore, kids, even writing essays on Bradbury books.

SO, THE MOMENTARY MONOTONY-MUTILATING. It is, in all unexpectedness, thanks to my sweet little brother. This news is so earth-shattering, yes, that it merits a LiveJournal update, I promise. He, who blindly loathes everything in my musical library that does not involve AC/DC, likes a song by an indie band. IS THIS NOT HUGE? IT IS HUGE. DEMANDS FOR "INCREDIBLY DRUNK ON WHISKEY" DO NOT COME EVERY DAY, ALL RIGHT.

In even more fascinating news, aforementioned song just ended and aforementioned brother has just called someone on the phone and asked, "Who is this?" upon receiving an answer. I think I should be concerned, but I am too busy wondering whether Bradbury can touch his tongue to his nose to care.