this entry kind of got away from me a bit

In the grand tradition of doing Seriously Fuckall during holidays (something which certain insanely overachieving Californian BFFs of my acquaintance seem to have trouble grasping!) I didn't move from my computer chair today except to fetch slices of prune cake and occasionally make sure that my brother wasn't watching the Bill Bailey Live DVD without me. I have two days left of holidays and then it's back to the academic grind for eighteen weeks, so I'm making the most of my filthy decadence while I can.

What did I accomplish? Well, see also: Seriously Fuckall, though in between bouts of ruthless comma removal I did manage to ascertain that when we move to Chicago and live with the Winchesters, setissma will be the one who cooks things and catches spiders. I am not sure yet what my contribution to this household will be. Maybe it could involve dancing on furniture? (I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO DO THIS. The first thing I will do when I get an apartment of my very own will be to put on some loud music and dance on the kitchen table. Ah, my humble dreams.)

Today's strip at PhD Comics is the best. thing. ever.

Uuum oh yes! Courses for this semester are Perception (third year psych course, going to be AWESOME.), Parasitology (also AWESOME) and Introductory Human Anatomy (which requires me to buy Grey's Anatomy as a text). My dinner table conversation until the end of the year is going to be just charming. And yes, I'm only doing three courses because of that summer project I did a year and a half ago - "So, Fahye!" you say, full of optimistic approval, "Does this mean you might actually have quite a lot of free time and thus will not implode under your own pressure like you did late last semester?"

"Um!" quoth I, looking shifty, "Well, I'm probably going to apply to David Jones for a casual job like the one I had over the summer."

"But Fahye! You vowed that working retail in a department store was a soul-destroying experience to which you would never return!" you say, looking concerned for my mental health.

To which I reply, "ALAS! I AM A MATERIALISTIC WHORE!" before gazing soulfully out from under my emo bang and then disappearing in a cloud of sheepish hyperbole and the vague hope that Claude Nine will blow up the department store anyway.