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 |  My first ever Writing.com journal. |
| this, currently, is probably the least proud i've ever been of myself, in all my life. not because i did anything wrong; just sort of on general principle. birthday picture: ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** tomorrow is my hell day. starting at ten o'clock, it never ends, unless i call in sick to work, in which case it starts at one and ends at seven-thirty. either way, the hardest part of the day will be my after-class talk with marcus, who has finally conceded that we've got some restructuring to do, and even, miraculously, agreed on a time and place. my room, eight o'clock. he made me promise not to clean for him, and i promised, but seriously, of all the ridiculous things my father ever said that i actually listened to, the one that stands out the most is, "a man will always view your environment as a reflection on your body." meaning, if he can't sit down comfortably, then he'd probably be just as uncomfortable letting you nuke his corndog, or carry his babies, whatever. marcus and i are very different in terms of our organizational schemes, this has been duly acknowledged on both sides, but i still like to put forth my best efforts, for him. even when he doesn't deserve it. i've just hit seven thousand views. these milestones no longer feel like milestones; they feel arbitrary and not particularly noteworthy. sorry for wasting your time. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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