i'm better. note to the wise, a fever, lunesta, and an itch to document leads to very honest writing, sheepish beware.

buuuuuut,
delay delay delay.

this is what i do best. i hear my mother's eyes rolling around in her head.

so much due, nothing done.
i can't help but think i'm delaying because it's a professor that i know likes me. not in a weird mary kay laterno way, but in a transcendent, i am my art my art is me, he likes what i create, he therefore likes me.



i almost exchanged two words, procrastination for delay and love for like. but they are both so coarse sounding and trite.

oscar wilde sez: "fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."

i want new shoes, incidentally. these, actually:


buy them for me?