I just got done reading some earlier blog entries, which was depressing. I think my writing voice has left the blog to ramble around the american southwest for a while, hopefully it'll come back. Also, I liked the way I structured my old blogs; sure they were long, but they had a mood or a feel to unite the whole package! Usually teen angst, but, eh.

Speaking of the disparity between reality and literature, which I sat through again today in Fritzell's class, there's a bigger disparity I erroneously thought I'd mentioned before. The disparity between what The Politician means and my reactions. I know the meaning of his words, but my brain picks up random emotions, ranging from total despair to ill-concealed rage.

The explanation is simply, really. The part of my brain designed to correctly interpret his mood was injured during one of my half dozen childhood head injuries. (If you care, dear readers, only one required stiches, and it gave me a story I've long since milked for all it's worth.)

As for class itself, I was late for German but managed to write a fairy tale meant to teach liberal arts students not to hope for money. In American Writers, I questioned Prof Fritzell on his character categories for The Pioneers, because they really didn't make sense at first, but afterwards I think that the class thought I was just asking a question to sound smart.

The D.J told me a very complicated story about repeating a joke I made ("the weather that eats like a meal" was the apparent punchline), which is apparently explains why my sneezes got a "bless you" in American Writers and The Feminist's went unregarded. It's all quite above my head. Watch Magnolia if you don't understand and want to be more confused.

I sat with The Young Lover, The Insurrectionist, and some kind of Ultimate Frisbee monk at lunch today, substituting randomness and outright lies for wit across the board. Dan, be not proud.

Well, there's not much else of import to relate at the moment. Later.