Welcome To My Bed

This day is shark bait.

Lots to buzz about. A one Jack McCarthy is storming the Northeast, and I had the exquisite pleasure of seeing him perform on two consecutive evenings, once in my own Hampshire backyard (for an hour! for free!!!) and then for the second time on my weekly excursion to Cambridge. I also gave Sam a pretty decent haircut. On the way back from Boston, I sang at the top of my lungs almost the entire way, and it was amazing. I even made the weird Alanis noises that Alanis makes in her songs. My throat felt very 90s afterwards. Katie and I laughed at my need to make such ludicrous noises, but we also decided that one of the main factors predisposing us to feminism was our childhood love/unhealthy obsession with Alanis. Yay Canada!

In "real life", one of my poetry professors told me that I am too "emotionally hard" on myself after reading selections from the manuscript of my 365 project. This impromptu meeting about the manuscript cut into the first twenty minutes of a class where I was meant to be discussing the poetry of Emily Brontë, but beyond that, it probably made me be even more hard on myself for being hard on myself in the first place.

And I got semi-lost driving to North Station, which is stupid, because North Station has signs for it everywhere. Google Maps, you are thoroughly inadequate when it comes to navigating Boston. I propose that someone create some sort of exhaustive GPS designed only for navigating Boston, one that actually recognizes what road you are on, and tells you to turn down streets that aren't one ways headed in the opposite direction. Yeah! Hop to it, Somebody!

I am using exclamation points a lot more frequently than I normally would. This can probably be attributed to the fact that I am over-tired in a way that is generally unacceptable for the level at which I must function on a given Thursday. I just want to curl up in bed with my shark and take a long long nap while someone else does my laundry, fixes me a hot dinner that isn't leftover pizza rewarmed in the toaster oven, and then maybe crawls in bed next to me. We all know how likely that is to happen.

Workshop in my an hour, with two of my poems on the chopping block. I will reiterate here for effect, I just want to crawl into bed with Grössby.

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