Sing a happy song.

The elevator still smells like perfume and poo.

The elevator smells like poop and perfume.

This is an MMS message. I left all of my bras at school. So I only have the bra I wore on th way home. Fail.

Jane is bitching at me because I’m not sure how to do the data analysis for RTT and because I’m complaining about hurtung my foot.

Oh, how I fail at tuning.

I just realized that I’m wearing the same shirt as what I’m wearing in my student ID. Huh. Fail sauce?

I totally just BS’d my RTT paper. I worked on it for hours last night and couldn’t get a good intro. The hour it’s due, I write it all.

The infinite possibilities each day holds should stagger the mind, The sheer number of experiences I could have is uncountable, breathtaking, and Im sitting here refreshing my inbox. We live trapped in loops, reliving a few days over and over, and we envision only a handful of paths laid out ahead of us. We see the same things each day, we respond the same way, we think the same thoughts, each day a slight variation on the last, every moment smoothly following the gentle curves of societal norms. We act like if we just get through today, tomorrow our dreams will come back to us.

And no, I dont have all the answers. I dont know how to jolt myself into seeing what each moment could become, but i do know one thing: the solution doesn’t involve watering down my every little idea and creative impulse for the sake of someday easing myself into a mold. It doesnt involve tempering my life to better fit someones expectations. It doesnt involve holding back for fear of shaking things up.

This is very important, so I want to say it as clearly as I can: FUCK. THAT. SHIT.

mrsmarauder:

proudly

 I solemnly swear that I’m a part of Dumbledore’s Army.

I’m ready to chill out and blare some music. BUT NO. The girl who has spent little time studying today and a LOT of time trying to scare the other girls on our floor says that I need to turn my music down so she can study.  Sorry, but you constantly disturb me by yelling “KATRINA” or “JAMIE” at the top of your lungs all the damn time. 

 LET ME PLAY MY DAMN MUSIC, BITCH.