First off, let's define surreal for any non-English major people out there.
Surreal, noun, a serious tropical or subtropical disease of domestic animals that is caused by a trypanosome, is transmitted by biting flies, and is marked. . . Whoops. That's "surra." Try again.
Surreal, adj., marked by the intense irrational reality of a dream. Thank you Merriam and Webster. Actually, Merriam is not a single person. It's a family or something that bought Webster's dictionary after he died. Crummy people.
"Surreal, but nice."
The weirdness of my life keeps piling on. And although I can't remember portions of last night, I'm pretty sure it started before I had a Mountain Dew Live Wire Slurpee at 12:30 while driving around Provo with my roommate looking for Christmas lights and good cheer of any kind. I had made the mistake of turning on boyfriend number one's demo CD. Here's a tip: if he writes a song for you called "Good-bye" before you even ever kiss, it's a bad sign. Eventually "good-bye" will have to be said, which was actually the point of the whole damn song. Of course, he got most everything else wrong. I'm the one who left. I'm the one who's had "to be a man out on his own." Seriously.
Anyway, the paper of death needs to be read and I have a take home final due at 2:30 that I finally looked at around 4:30. I didn't understand it completely then and I have little hope for now, but it must be done. Tune in later tonight when I describe the excruciating pain of sitting through Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. BF1 played that role. Ack. Go away. Let me alone.
Maybe I just need to write poetry.
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1 comments:
Two points for Notting Hill you expatriot wannabe. I love that line. It takes a long time for me to progress to that very sentiment from breakup point(ick). I slept for three hours. I think I win for most sleep btween the two of us. Which leads me to believe that I should go to sleep right....NOW.
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