to be great is to be misunderstood

Today I was not feeling well at all. My palms were sweaty, my eyes were droopy, and I called my mom from school and asked her to pick me up some of those tissues with lotion because my nose was chapped and red. So I decided it would have been best to stay home from the Punch Brothers concert. And now all I can do is watch youtube videos and sigh.

chocolate muffin tops and worshipping the ground you walk on

french films

blueberry pancakes

stuffy noses

crossing my fingers for punch bowl

why aren't you excited about my neighbors having a pet monkey

two very classy people...

one very complex, dark, enigmatic person...

a number of people with peculiar modes of reasoning, yet modes of reasoning none the less...

makes for a weekend full of wonderful encounters, and never getting my homework done. 

the part about popping balloons was a stretch

a few little thoughts:

t. s. eliot is a god

i am much too much too reserved

with the exception of my cut-off shorts, i wish i could wear skirts every day

i don't know which version of this song i like better. i like different versions on different days. 

fat cats and quickly approaching curbs

I was a jazz age poet for Halloween. My literature teacher said that I should wear me costume when we study Jack Kerouac and the Beats. I died. On Saturday I went shopping for used cds with my dad, and we bought Nickel Creek, Miles Davis, Van Morrison, and Paul Simon. Monday Today was my dad's birthday, so we bought him an apple pie and Iron and Wine's Woman King album. We went to a little Italian restaurant and drank coffee. And now we are sitting around watching the election.