There’s a girl in front of me reading a website for aspiring models. I can’t tell from this angle if she’s hot, but I’ll go take a look.
I think my fingernail length and my essay length are inversely related. The more I write, the more I chew.
Of my essay’s 5,420 words, I bet at least 25% of them are either “colonized,” “marginalized,” “oppressed,” or variations thereof.
I want beer. Who can I call to meet me for beer? That’s right, no one.
I’d leave my computer to go get a drink of water, but the guy beside me might steal my stuff. He’s kind of shifty-eyed.
Upon frontal inspection, I didn’t think the girl was particularly hot.
I wish I had Strawberry Campinos. Mmm…Campinos.
If I’m still here at 2 A.M., and everyone else is gone, should I moon the security camera?
I wonder why all the birds have stopped chirping. They were making quite a racket before. I really don’t want to open the blinds and see a field full of dead bird carcasses. That would be eerie.
Does God wear clothes?
I’ll only peruse About the Message Board one more time before I go back to work, I promise.
Did Adrienne Rich commit suicide? Or am I thinking of Anne Sexton? I know Sylvia Plath gassed herself to death, but I’m not sure about Rich or Sexton. Damn, the confessional poets are all blurring together.
My back hurts, and I want to go home.
