I have no title, but I can tell you that the cerebellum, pons, and medulla compse the rhombencephalon, which is located ventral to the occiptal lobe.

Halfway through with the first wave of midterms in all six classes (yay!), and definitely did very well in oceanography (yay!), mostly likely rather well in physiological psychology (yay!), and had Egypt kick my ass (boo!). However, the only the easy ones are left.

Except I'm a little bit worried about art history because they give you approximately twenty minutes with the review sheet. I'm exaggerating, but five days is not a lot to learn all the art work from the dawn of time to ancient Greece (about eight thousand years). It will be fine though. According to Pick a Prof.com (my favorite website- EVER), forty-nine percent of the class gets an A. I *know* I'm smarter than forty-nine percent of the morons in that class. Even just the three who sit in front of me, one has a picture of her making out with some guy as her background on her laptop, one hasn't learned to use deodorant yet, and one hasn't opened her notebook in weeks.

I can do better than *all* of them. Probably without studying.


Kind of tired, though. Got very angry this morning when I had to get up. Very, very angry.

OMG, new HIMYM tonight!!! OMG Squared, Season 2 on DVD tomorrow!!! YES!!! *does happy dances*

Do you kno what this also means? This means that in seven days and twelve hours Josh's Christmas CD will be out!!! *words do not express fangirly joy*



I have exhausted myself with thinking about all the work I've been doing lately and my fangirliness. I'm going to go eat a cookie.

Questions I Ask Myself

I was on the FOJG message boards (shut up, I'm bored) and some woman started a thread saying that she had a ticket available for tonight's show in Omaha. She couldn't go because she was having complications due to her pregnancy.

First I thought about feverishly mapquesting Omaha (if I leave right now, could I make the encores???).

Then I thought, "Wait. If it were me, and my pregnancy, and my unborn baby; would I miss a Josh concert?"

And I honestly think the answer would be no.

I am a horrible person who will rot in hell.

Christmas in August

FOJG.com released the cover art for Josh's Christmas CD today.

I was understandably squeeling and wigging out and maybe jumping up and down and drooling over my keyboard, and Colleen comes over to see what the craziness fuss was about.

"Isn't it like the hottest thing ever!?!?!?!"

"Um...it's a picture of Josh. With a light behind him. And snow."

*sigh*

Looks like we're back to my fandom being crazier but in no way superior to her fandom.

It is clearly so much more than a picture with snow and light. Gah. She just doesn't get it.

Also some major shit going down on the boards, because it looked like Barnes and Noble and amazon.com, who both offered the "special edition" for preorder, had sold out. *shock and awe*

But then people started getting e-mails from the websites that the distributors had decided not to release a special edition.

Even though the Barnes and Noble stores *are* still accepting pre-orders.

And nobody from Josh's camp is saying anything.

This is not good.

If there is something that these women like less than the thought that Josh is the same age as their grandsons, it is being kept out of the loop.

They are not amused.

Personally, I'm not too worried. These are CDs that aren't set to be released for a month and a half. If they know they can sell a million more copies, they'll make some more. It's a disc of plastic.

It left me with one major thought though---

Thank you God that Barnes and Noble and not Borders got the rights to this. The Harry Potter thing almost killed me. I couldn't deal with irrate Grobanites calling the store for the next month who want to know WHERE THEIR CD IS RIGHT NOW OMG. And I know that all the phone calls would get tossed to me. Because my fandom cannot be silenced, and everyone I work with knows that I would do anything, including commit perjury (You may think this is farfetched, but I've actually been asked to do this for someone---and not someone whose babies I want to have. I'm just saying.), treason, or mortal sins for Josh. (Well, maybe not the bordering-on-graphic last part, but I'm sure they have a pretty good idea.)

I'd have to quit.

Why Jack Keruoac, Joel Osteen, and Marvel Comics can take all their books and shove them up their road-tripping, stupidly grinning, zombie asses.

AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE.

*ahem*

I worked yesterday. Supposedly in the cafe, and supposedly with people all day long, thus freeing me to drink free iced tea, play my cell phone, and debate the various shortcomings of UWM's Foreign Language Department. (And there are many, let me tell you. In one afternoon, Kim and I came up with like seventeen.)

But Pam was in a tasking mood, and instead I was pulled from the cafe and was shown to a display, handed a piece of paper with a bunch of titles on it, and told to redo it. Sounds easy, except there was no room on any shelves for the eighteen thousand titles currently on the display. Resolving that issue involved about an hour of me perched on top of a ladder up at the overstock shelves trying to alphabetize Jodi Picoult's thirty-second title (I swear to God, that woman is the most prolific not-that-great-author of our generation. Shelves and shelves have been devoted to her drivel.) while bemoaning the fact that Nicholas Sparks is allowed to live and write in our world.

Because Nicholas Sparks is evil.

He is everything that is wrong with women in general today. He is sappy, and mopey, and love-sick, but not in a good way, just in a way that makes me want to retch.

And I'm convinced he is a woman.

(Halfway through my hour-long internal tirade against Mr. Sparks, a sweet little girl who was probably about eleven or twelve came up and asked me where The Notebook was. I showed her the cheapest copy I could find, and tried desperately to find a way to let the clueless father accompanying her that this was a VERY adult book, with actual not just and-then-they-kissed sex scenes, and that perhaps a little girl dulled by the Ryan Gosling/Rachel McAdams cutsiness shouldn't be reading it, but there is no way to say that without sounding like a creep. So he's just going to have to deal with the questions later on...)

Finally, I got all the crap back on the shelves, and went off to find the new books that would fill the display instead of Nicholas an his ovaries.

This posed a problem. Because they were all graphic novels.

I don't read graphic novels.

When someone asks for one, I either pawn it off on somebody else or just point vaguely at the corner of the store that houses slim books whose names are in Japanese. I think that's where they are

Except now I was being asked to find twenty different, very specific titles in that scary section. And I almost cried.

And our graphic novels are not organized in a normal, alpha by author thing that I may conceivably have a chance of figuring out. No. They're organized by character. Character? You can't always tell the character by the title. Like something called Marvel Zombies. Not under Marvel. Or Zombies.

Two hours later, when I finished the damn thing, my tubes had tied themselves for fear that they would one day give life to something with a penis who liked to read graphic novels.

Task #2 was a 50th Anniversary of On the Road endcap. By Kerouac, whose last name none of us ignorant fools staffing the bookstore could pronounce.

Except we were out of all the books that were supposed to go on it.

Leaving me to come up with titles that go with it to fill the numerous empty spots.

Oh. Lord. No.

American lit is NOT my thing. French, Russian, British, sign me up. I can even tell you who liked whose writing and who thought who was a crock. But anything written by an American I probably haven't read and if I have I probably hated it.

So do you know what's on my Jack Kerouac endcap??? The two solitary copies of On the Road that we did actually have, travel journals, and Kurt Vonnegut, who has nothing to do with anything except he's also weird and dead.

When I go in on Tuesday, I really hope someone has taken it down.

In the last twenty minutes before I got to leave, I had to do a teensy tiny Joel Osteen display. Which wasn't too taxing, except that I really, really hate Joel Osteen and his smileyness and his hot wife. Although with the number of his crappy books I've sold I think I know why he has a hot wife. There's a lot of money in faux spiritualism, apparently.

Just one link today, because I'm sitting outside (yay for notebooks!!!) and it's starting to get windy. Also, my tirade against the publishing world has taken up about half of my battery power.

Holy Christmas on an ocean liner, Josh sings Ave Maria on Noel. *is dead now*

ETA: My quest for correct grammar may be going too far. Our neighbor is teaching his son-in-law to use the dirt bike (don't ask) and just said "You're doing very good." And I had the almost uncontrollable urge to yell across the lawn, "WELL!!! HE'S DOING WELL!!!" *sigh* As though we aren't unpopular enough.

More Estrogen-Fueled Josh Craziness: St. Paul Edition

Just so you know, this will be long. And rambling. And probably not too interesting. First, pictures. Album one. And album two. Enjoy.




So, Minnesota was amazing. Josh was amazing. The Steely Dan/Toby Keith/Halo music/Dana stuff we were forced to listen to the entire way there? Not so much. But I digress.


It took us forever to get there, probably because we stopped at every single bathroom between Milwaukee and St. Paul, and then drove around the UW-La Crosse campus for awhile. One of Colleen's prospective-but-can't-afford-it schools. There are a lot of those for us in the middle class.





We got to the hotel really late on Thursday, and were all cranky and tired and quiet (probably good because of the aformentioned crankiness), and just ate and stared in horror at the shower.

Oh. Was that just me?

Let's just say I came home and scrubbed out my shower. Yeah. Not pretty.


Friday we tooled around Minneapolis/St. Paul, crossing bridges despite my fervent protests that if God had wanted us to go to the other side of the river he would have put a nice little path of land across it and not expected us to come up with other hopelessly inadaquete ways to get across.


Went to a cathedral that was supposed to be like St. Peter's. Um. Except it's totally not.


I've had an issue with churchs based on European landmarks since I was forced to go to a Mass at the crack of dawn in Cincinnatti at one that was supposed JUST LIKE NOTRE DAME, OMG. Except IT WAS IN FREAKING CINCINNATTI. Does no one realize that all gothic and classical architecture is essentially the same? That in most ways, a gothic cathedral is of course going to resemble another gothic cathedral? That the whole thing that makes Notre Dame so amazing is that it's NOTRE DAME AND YOU'RE IN FRANCE? Not crazy, bloated, and ready to kill your family somewhere in Ohio (true story)???


Ugh. So in conclusion? St. Peter's without the Bernini/Michelangelo stuff but with a Hooters right around the corner? Yeah. Not as good.





The concert, however, was absolutely freaking amazing. Like I can't even begin to describe how amazing it was. It made walking four blocks in the 100 degree heat only to return to our original dinner choice, seated facing the wall like we'd been naughty and given a choice between a burger and calamari at some faux Irish place and then standing outside in the aformentioned 100 degree heat for forty minutes until they finally let us in totally okay.


And for those of you who know how I feel about a carefully constructed makeup face (because, you know, I was in the 10th row, he could totally see me!!!) melting, is quite a lot.


Imladris and I obsconded with with good tickets, of course, after carefully trying both sets out to make sure that they were not, in fact, in the back row and would not get to touch him during In Her Eyes, thus making me mad. They weren't, so we took the closer ones. I'd forgotten in the two years since I've had really good seats how much fun it is to really watch a performer (especially one as pretty as Josh) during a concert, and not just the general thing. You could see faces. And flap during the hand-clapping part of Weeping, which is when I lost the capability to speak.


He sounded great, and the whole audience banter thing was mostly the same (at least all the canned stuff, obviously). The "learning to dance" part was a little different, with Angelique asking if they could get dirty now, and then putting dollar bills down his shirt.


Yes. I know.


I almost died.


And the karaoke??? So funny.




I got home and checked the boards (immediately, because that's just he kind of crazy I am), and actually, the Grobanites are not too amused the turn these concerts have taken. He's gotten way more popular, the fan base in younger (for the first time, I wasn't the youngest in my section), and they're far more aggressive. They rush the stage like all the time, and apparently disturb things.


This is kind of a load of crap. Yeah, the women in front of me kept jumping up every time he came over, which was massively distracting, and I wish people would just sit down because it's way easier for everybody to see. But it's not that big a deal. And certaintly not as big a deal as some people make it out to be. Really, totally not a reason to not think the concerts are God's gift to people.


Some people are even whining existentially about how Josh is taking a new direction and it's different, and this just smacks of old women who are incapable of processing new information (as my sister, the AP Psych student, would say). Like when he did an interview and joked about booty calls and they all went batshit crazy.


No, really, that happened. It was freaking hilarious.


Also a load of crap. It was awesome. He was awesome. I want to go back. How far to Winnipeg??? I have a passport...



The final part of the trip merits it's own estrogen-fueled section, but estrogen-fueled for a totally different reason.


We stopped in Mankato on the way home- the Deep Valley of the Besty-Tacy books. Or, the Most Adorable Books Ever OMG. We found Betsy's house, and Tacy's (although we originally mixed them up), and what we think was Tib's, although that was privately owned so it did not have a convenient sign on it saying "Tib lived here". I would totally put one up, though, if I lived there.


We got to go into Betsy's house, which was unexpected because they're restoring it, and Tacy's had been turned into a little gift shop.


There was a bench up at the top of the Big Hill, but some rat-fink bastard vandals knocked it down. I'm sorry, but there IS A SPECIAL PLACE IN HELL FOR WHOMEVER KNOCKED OVER BETSY AND TACY'S BENCH!!! *ahem*


It was just the cutest things ever. I loved it. I'd like to move there. I'm totally naming my first daughter Tacy.


I even let Mom take my picture. *That's* how into it I was.


Whew. I'm tired. And I need to go school-supply shopping. I'll do a real update, not just ranting, tomorrow.

More Estrogen-Fueled Josh Craziness: Milwaukee Edition

First, Imladris would like you all to know that she is not repressed. *snicker* At least not any more.



If you would like to see part one of the craziness, scroll down. And be prepared to never see me the same way again.

Le anyhoodles, last night was amazingly awesome.

So awesome that I can't even really describe it. It's one of those things where if you were there than you know what I'm talking about and if you weren't you probably don't care/won't get it.

Except to say that he has spoiled me for every other male on the planet. If Johnny Depp propositioned me right now? I'd probably decline.

Okay. Maybe not.

Still. Normal guys? I'm sorry. You no longer hold any interest for me.



The music was absolutely amazing. Beautiful, moving, everything that his stuff is normally but like ten times better because it's FREAKING LIVE.

He's so adorable, and funny, although significantly less self-deprecating this time around. I'm kind of ambivilent about that. He's probably just getting tired of the crazy fan-grandmas.

The dancing thing? So cute.

And MY MOM TOUCHED HIM!!! So did Mary, but I was too far away. That's okay. I'd actually be kind of devestated if I met him in real life, because then in the Real World (unlike the Beautiful World In My Head Where We Have Lots of Sex and Babies), our relationship would be nonexistant. Which is a totally different than the nonexistant-by-reason-that-he-hasn't-fallen-in-love-with-me-yet that exists now.

Stop looking at me like that. I'm not crazy.



Bought tons of stuff, too. You know that Awake hoodie that I previously poo-pooed people buying because it was so expensive? Guess what I'm wearing as soon as it gets colder???

Also? The poster with him sitting on a bed. Hell yeah.

The one thing I didn't get was a t-shirt, and now I'm regretting it, because it was 85 degrees today and wanted to wear a Josh thing, dammit. I'll have to buy one on Friday. My problem with concert t-shirts is that they aren't fitted, and prior to last fall when I lost weight on the Live-At-Home-During-College Diet (works wonders, let me tell you), I wore such huge sizes that they didn't look good in public. But this time I want one I can actually wear.

I'm so looking forward to Friday night, but also kind of dreading it, because then it will be over. Hmmm. Going to have to pack a bunch of booze. Because we all know that's how I deal with Josh-related depression.

Just because I feel like it? Panda sex song.

I probably won't update until Sunday when I get home, so everybody have a good weekend!!!

Dear Josh Groban

Author's Note: Please God, Dad, don't read this.

Hi! I just saw you in concert, and while I will post a full, undoubtedly caffeine-fueled recap tomorrow, I felt the need to write.

Because I want you.

Really badly.

Right now.

Anything that will hold us.

So please, before you consider my sister- who went from being a repressed Catholic schoolgirl (And not in the dirty way- although, if that works for you, I probably could find a uniform. I did go through the second grade, you know.)known for screeching "Bad touch! Bad touch!!!" to a filthy whore in the span of like ten seconds when you can onstage, or Mary- who said that if she had gone with her boyfriend she would have had to dump him because there's no way he could ever be good enough, or, God forbid, one of those fat, post-menopausal women who wanted to grab your ass during "In Her Eyes", PLEASE CALL ME.

I'm young, not hideously disfigured, and yeah I guess I've put on a little weight since the gymnastics days, but at lease my ovaries still work, unlike the majority of your fans.

Also, since you sang Weeping and said "I'll be damned"??? I've aquired incredibly flexible morals. Just so you know.

Anyhoodles, looking forward to Friday. Love you. Bye!!!

Post-Pre-Sale Update: The Return

Milwaukee: Center floor. Row 19.

St. Paul: Side floor. Row 25.

That's right. I rawk.

I was not pleased, however, at exactly 10 o'clock when all that the site would give me were crappy seats in the balcony. I did not join the fanclub for balcony seats, y'all.

Also, Green Bay was sold out. *tear* But that's okay. I'm good with the two.

Also Squared: this does not make The Worst Night Of My Life okay. NOTHING will make that okay. EVER. I could marry Josh and give birth to his adorable curly-haired children and it would still not make it okay. Do you understand. NOTHING. So do not even bring it up, or I will be forced to throw something at you. Hey. If I can threaten my 90-year-old veteran grandfather, I can threaten you.

Other than rejoicing about my ticketed blessings, I've done absolutely nothing today. Wait. That's not true. I've drunk about twelve cups of coffee (not sure, but I know I made eight this morning, and then remade ten, but my mom and sister had some...so...), downloaded Kelly Clarkson's new single (What? I'm a dork. I never pretended to be anything else.), and joined a bunch of Facebook groups (now a proud member of "I tried to ford the river and now my *not appropriate for a family blog* oxen died (uwm chapter)". Hell yeah. Also the Sheriff of Nottingham Appreciation Society. Represent.

Nobody told me it was freakishly addicting.

Have lots of other stuff to do. In theory at least. The house is filthy, there's laundry up the chute, and I have a paper to write (the final one of freshman year---woot). But that Oregon Trail group was so much more fun.

Oooh, bought The Queen yesterday---sooo good!!! Everybody should go see that movie, not just nerds like me. One of the best movies I saw all 2006.

Supposed to go see Fracture tonight, if Person I'm Going to See Fracture With ever calls me back. *sigh* Does anybody know what that's about? I know Notebook Guy and Anthony Hopkins are in it, and I think Anthony Hopkins plays a killer (duh), but other than that I'm not sure. It's totally not my kind of movie, but there's nothing else out.

Rosie's leaving The View. Oh, sad. I loved her on that. Now I don't have a reason to watch every day. Boo!!!

Ding dong the one-legged, gold-digging whore is gone. I'm sorry. That was mean. But you do not hurt the only Beatle people care about and get away with it, missy. That's right. America doesn't feel so sorry for you anymore.

Just a quick note- I'd like to apologize for the end of the last entry. I had just joined the facebook group "Alan Rickman is a Dead Sexy Beast". Shut up.

*fin*

Panda Sex Song

All right. I'd just like to say that my day was kind of sucking what with the whole bus being late, falling asleep in the afternoon and then feeling all cranky, Dancing with the Stars showing crazy people that I DON'T CARE ABOUT instead of my beloved Josh, as well as the whole worthless degree thing.

But no more. Because now I have Josh singing about Panda Sex.

The funniest thing I have ever seen.

And this clearly is enough to induce seizure-like happiness.

Good night, all.

ETA: I just stopped laughing long enough to realize that JOHN SHOULD NOT CLICK ON THIS!!! *ahem* This has been Kathleen looking out for your immortal soul.

A chronicle of my inappropriate relationship with my washing machine.

This is my new washing machine. I love it. Possibly more than one should love a machine, and definately more than I love anything or anyone else in the house.


I don't even care that it's huge and incovenient and kind of maybe almost didn't allow us to close the bathroom door again ever---it is my beloved and I would have it's babies.

But an advantage to it being huge and inconvenient? The drum is way bigger, and the towels that would have taken me two loads only take one now. Woot woot. Also, there's a little time remaining thingy that I am infinately amused by. Ooh, and a light inside the dryer so when you open it it's all white and bright. Oooh. So pretty.

All hail the machine that brings me clean sheets. Whee!!!

Spent the entire morning listening to every single professor say "OMG MIDTERM COMING DROP NOW OR PROCEDE AT YOUR OWN PERIL OMG", which was not terribly comforting. Although I did start to laugh in art history when the TA was talking about the Last Supper and said, "Okay. And because of that stupid book by Dan Brown now I have to talk about the figure on the left. That is John the Evangelist. It is not Mary Magdalene. If you say it's Mary Magdalene on the exam, I will mark you wrong for being so stupid. I don't care that you saw the damn movie, it's all fake."

Teehee.

So between art history and The Class of the Damned, I've been thinking of nothing more recent that 1400 within the last two weeks. And frankly it's starting to get to me. Just FYI, if you're ever looking for a fun way to kill an afternoon, reading prmiary sources from 1250 is not an option. Just no.

Although my favorite one? Where the bishop is doing his rounds and finds two monks doing it. Oh yeah. Gotta love that shit.

Bought The Prestige on DVD today, and completed my Hot Guys Who Can Also Do Tricks No Not Like That You Perv set. *is happy*

Unfortunately, the Empress is detained at her place of business tonight and we cannot watch it, alas. But perhaps it's for the best- those styrofoam balls and windchimes aren't going to sell themselves.

Seriously running out of space on my DVD shelf, though. I need to expand.

Is it wrong that I hate Amy a lot? Shut up I know she's not real.

In preparation for the Greatest! Concert! Ever! on Saturday, I perused the boards to find out how much merchandise was, and oh holy shit I'm going to need a second job just to pay for all the crap I want.

The pink and brown Awake hoodie? $75. WTF???

The t-shirts are only about thirty, though, and the key chain (I clearly need a keychain) is only five. *sigh*

The obviously inflated prices is just another thing I'm going to have to talk to Josh about after we're married. No, I'm not entirely sure when I'll have time to marry Josh between having Edward Norton's babies and moving in with my washing machine, but thank you for asking.

Going to go make my bed with NEW! CLEAN! SHEETS! *squee*

Requiem for a DVD player

*sigh*

My faithful friend that got me through either three or four (can't remember which birthday I got it for---15 or 16) and a half years is dead. Dead. Won't play anything, wasting space on my shelf, making the 200 DVDs carefully organized according to degree of worship standing next to it completely obsolete dead.

Not good.

Because clearly what I needed in this season of the release of every major DVD/box set I've ever wanted and Christmas gifts and an expensive haircut and oh yeah THREE THOUSAND FREAKIN' DOLLARS for an eighth of a practically worthless piece of paper that will qualify you to do absolutely freakin' nothing from a school who's name doesn't even make sense (Letters and Sciences? What the hell does that even mean???) I needed an excuse to spend fifty bucks on another electronic.

But in between a finals and a stop at Pick and Save for cookie adornments, I went to Target and bought one because the last twelve hours without any entertainment whatsoever have been killing me, and it's now in a box waiting for Daddy to set up because I am Teh Hopelessness when it comes to anything that plugs in.

Also, I desperately need to watch Little Miss Sunshine on DVD.

However, I am not, as previously assumed, Teh Hopelessness in the kitchen. Well, I mean, I probably still am, but I spent three and a half hours today making Christmas cookies, all of which are mine and mine alone, because something did not notify the Patriarch of the family that I hold the copyright for Mexican Wedding Cakes and he made them instead, I don't really care, because they are Teh Awesomeness, and I was forced to go though the Betty Crocker Christmas Cookbook last night and come up with my "own" recipes.

I did quite well. Something called a sparkle cookie, which is pretty much just a sugar cookie rolled in colored sugar, spice cookies with frosting, chocolate bon bon cookies (without the nuts, so I guess they're just chocolate) with vanilla frosting and sprinkles, and the ever popular spritz. Oh, and my fudge, which I don't think anyone really eats but I really like to make.

Everything else went swimmingly, but since last year we have somehow managed to lose a critical component of the spritz machine in our completely impractical and now probably mouse infested corner cabinet (seriously, what were you thinking with that?). Like the part that screws on the top to keep the metal thing on. Important. So I was forced to use the hideously shit-colored brown thing that my parents probably got for a wedding gift and was still in the box that had inexplicably made the move and ended up with a prime piece of real estate in our completely impractical corner cabinet.

Just an update: I thought the '70s were the worst decade for home decor, what with all the furriness. No longer true---the '80s with all their yuppiness and puke-colored appliances were definitely worse.

Also, this machine sounded like a dying baby.

I'm not making that up.

So, I haven't exactly been a beacon of personal care today. Got up at quarter to six, which is an hour when no one should have to get up because there is nothing worthy that you could possibly accomplish before seven o'clock so you might as well just stay asleep.

But when you have a math final with probability (*spat*) at seven freakin' thirty, sadly, you must. And then you find yourself sitting in the coffee shop at eight thirty not entirely able to remember how you go to campus or took that exam or what time it is exactly and it's a very strange world when you've been up for three hours by eight-thirty.

So one left. *happy dances*

Also, I've had a skim mocha and Christmas cookies today. Not kidding. That's it. Not good.

Don't care, though, because some wonderful Grobie sent me Josh's two new songs on some Hallmark CD that I'd never heard of that doesn't come out until January, and it's probably totally illegal but I don't care because they're on my iPod now and you can't take them away from me!!! Damn, that boy's damaged.



Next major project? Wrapping presents. Love to do that. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.
Two major happiness notes: 1.) I'm finished with math for the rest of my life. Choirs of angels are singing *right now*

Also, CBS is rerunning the Christmas episode of How I Met Your Mother, which is quite possibly one of the funniest I've seen in quite a while.

Have a good day!!!