Hm. Irony's a bit bitter today. Well, so am I. I'm ill. And not in an attractive 19th-century-consumption-delicate-roses-on-my-cheeks type of way either. More like the flu type of way where I can neither breathe nor swallow. To add insult to injury, I'm at school and it's absolutely no fun being ill when your mother isn't around to get you soup and juice. Instead of benefitting from that lovely maternal instinct, I have to go to class where I will spend half my time freezing and the other half burning up. I don't, however, think that I will make it to religion. My professor won't care anyway. He says if you have something better to do, don't come to class and I feel that buying Nyquil and crashing on my bed is much more beneficial to my general well being than discussing Mircea Eliade. I didn't even retain the reading because I was reading it outside yesterday by the lake in the 75 degree weather and my thoughts ran more towards 'Tra la la, look at the duckies.' I also feel like blaming Torpedo Bob for my illness. He's a wretch. We'll have words when I get my voice back. For now, I'm going to go buy a yogurt and some orange juice (Because it's frigging impossible to find unadulterated grapefruit juice on this campus) and moan and groan my way through Sociology, as it will entertain the Fruit Hoarder.
Aaaarrgh