In a final and inspired attempt to write something profound, here I am without a single thought-provoking word. And on top of that, the amount of pre-edited typos in the previous sentence surpasses any I've ever seen in my life, thanks to my suddenly neurologically challenged digits. Oh well.
So I love to stare at my reflection in the window because somehow a soft and dim outline of my features is so much more sexy and mysterious than anything I see in the mirror. My hair always looks better in a window. I wish I could figure out what to do with it tomorrow, though I suppose it doesn't matter. I have idiot orientation tomorrow and I severely doubt that anyone will be giving serious contemplation to my curly mane.
God, I wish it felt like summer. Instead it feels like a mix between a lonely pile of mulch and hysteria with a side of survival mode. What ever happened to running through the grass bare-footed with the sun kissing my back and closing my eyes and spinning around and falling in to cool eternity? Only it wasn't eternity. It was about five minutes, actually, when life felt like summer; life was as it should be. Summer is pure freedom. Without freedom, summer is only existence. And we're only existing.