the BRUTAL, UGLY truth of my FABULOUS, BEAUTIFUL life.
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10:37 a.m. + 2003-11-24 = casting lots.
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somewhere out there, i'm sure there is a psychoanalyst with his/her smug psychoanalytical babble suggesting that i have not completed work because i want to prolong college--that i am not ready to leave.
but wherever we find such, we also find a mattson, with all the rationality of every swede ever, saying, "no... not really. i'm just lazy and too easily swayed by mere mention of 'south park midnight marathon'."
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if you were here, we'd be holed up in my bed under the stockade of blankets, listening to britta phillips & dean wareham's "l'avventura" and the wind whistling the snow outside. i might suggest tea, you may require coffee. though somehow beverage plans fall to the wayside as we've found ourselves incredibly naked... and what're a pair of paradigms to do?
i'll start training the cat to pull the shades so when scenario inevitably happens, we won't need to cast lots to decide who has the unfortunate task of removing himself from the womb of my bed.
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comments?? --->[thisaway]--->[[looks to me as though there are...]]---> 0 repercussions thus far
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[prologue] *** [epilogue] ***[plottwist!]
[[erstwhile]] ***** [[forthwith]]
