Speaking of the divorce, who saw THAT coming?! (Note heavy sarcasm. I’m laying it on pretty thick. Font can only do so much). If Britney Spears can’t make it, then who can.
Britney Spears makes me sick. Not because she’s gross and bald, but because the sound of her voice makes me want to inflict serious pain upon myself. She actually sounds mentally retarded, especially when she speaks. I don’t know how this woman ever got a record deal. Apparently anyone can. Give it a shot, Kehly.
Since we’re on the topic of being sick, who isn’t? I woke up this morning struggling to breathe while my trachea felt no larger than the width of a straw. I was concerned. I’ve got a fierce cough starting up, too. Nobody’s safe anymore.
This weekend was a hit. Saturday night was spent in el dormitorio con mis amigos. It was just a shit show, and that’s the best way that I can explain it. Everyone was tanked. So many things happened. Steve and Cole went streaking, like butt-ass, straight from the womb naked down the halls and into the stairwell. Steve wasn’t paid to, nor was he even encouraged to. No one knew he was doing it until he did. Nick got himself involved in some experimental arson. James vacuumed people, fell between a futon and a wall, and got wrapped up in Valentine’s Day garland. I went rollerblading in size 11 rollerblades. Marcus and Katie had a serious body-graffiti fest that involved a lot of profanity and swastikas. It was chaos. Pure chaos.
Let’s do it again.
In other news, here’s the agenda for the rest of the week:
Tomorrow is Marti Gras, a.k.a. Fat Tuesday, a.k.a. Everyone will be belligerently drunk and covered in beads and beer.
Wednesday: Lay in bed and throw up on myself.
Thursday: Wing my Social Scientific Foundations of Communication test. Hand me an F.
I have to study. You may or may not find me a) dead in my room from influenza, b) hanging myself in the shower, c) in the ITC, not studying.