Kudos to myself for my shortest post ever, which can be found below.


I just got out of psychology, for the test I’ve studied for the least in my entire college career. I wasn’t doing to badly until the last page, where he normally puts the questions that nobody knows the answer to. I don’t want to say I did well, because last time I thought I did well I didn’t even nearly get the score I wanted. Oh, well.


I have to teach Dr. Hasting’s ENG 110 class today, (and thursday) and I’m half-excited, half-indifferent, and half-dreading it. Freshman level classes are the most annoying, and it only makes it worse if there are upperclassmen in there that obviously have waited until the very last minute to take a freshman level class, so you know  that they don’t want to be there. If they give me trouble, I’m going to personally beat every single one of the upside the head, and I mean that. My day is going to be crazy enough without having to listen to a bunch of adults whine. (I might even tell them that…ha!) But anyways. I’m making myself angry and I’m not even there yet!


But we’re discussing poetry, and that’s kind of my thing. Poetry, like art, was meant to be discussed in a way that other writing–and even music–was not meant for. What we’re talking about today is a passage from Book III of Virgil’s  The Aeneid, which I actually had never really heard of, let alone read (please don’t throw things at me!) and a couple of works by Billy Collins. (Great guy.) 


My oboe lessons are today. Again. Tuesdays come around so fast. I’m trying hard not to dread it…this week has not gone so well. But then again, no week has gone well with Oskar. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.


But anyways, dear readers of mine. I have Spanish homework to complete.

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