vanilla cherry cloves
I went to see "Romeo and Juliet" last night (the first time I bought tickets!!), and it was fabulous. I don't know a damn thing about theater, so I can't exactly comment much about it other than I really enjoyed watching.I'm neck deep in work right now. Serves me right for going home Thursday night, not bringing any work, then finally getting to it a few hours ago. I don't know why I do this to myself. It's so irresponsible, yet there's a certain high in knowing that a deadline's fast at my heels.
It's taking me forever to get through Middlemarch because I always stop and underline lines that are especially beautiful and moving and real. The plot's totally boring, but the delivery's superb (what a pretentious word: superb).
I hate how I don't want to go to house parties anymore. It always happens: I get excited about something, then as the day draws near, the only thing I want to do is stay in. It's like I'm playing a game of hide and seek with the world (oh god that was angsty). Why am I commenting on my own post? I think I'm delirious. Maybe the entire thing should be parenthetical so it doesn't count
(something about how buying Sexton's complete poems is a bad bad idea, or that even my Swatchs are getting on my nerves because they tick too loudly, or that there're random bottles of harmless pills on my desk and a dirty blue glass of orange juice)
but it does, doesn't it? Maybe so much that it becomes e.e.cummings, who I used to hate, or something else which dictates that the things we mutter under our breaths mean more than those we say out loud (I still puke a little when I read my writing, sometimes).
posted by Tiffany @ 8:12 PM
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