good morning. i am tired. reading hemingway makes me want to cry from how beautiful it is. it makes me so sad when i love a writer and i found out that they killed themselves. i think a lot of other writers would be with me on this. it is hard to think of these people as mentors and then they go and blow their heads off or stick them into ovens or drug or drink themselves to death, etc etc. there really is no relation between the art and the person. which is kinda sad but also good, i guess.

good morning. i havent posted in a while. i'm sure my readers are just dying to know how my pumpkin cream cheese muffins went over during t-day; well let me tell you, they didn't! it was a heinous recipe and i threw them all out. anyway.

i have little to say: i am typing it all into a story. my wrist hurts and my computer shakes as i type. today is a day is a day and i am in it in it in it... christmas is coming!

oh yay. my boyfriend is studying for finals. soon i will actually have to calculate my students grades. and his big new leather chair keeps swiveling and out of the corner of my eye i think it is a dark cloaked figure. dammit!

it is 9:48 am, but the post prolly tells u that. okay dunzo for now