Doom and Gloom, Doom and Gloom.

The fifteenth of April is coming up, meaning that it's time to pick a course for the autumn 2004 semester.

Let me try to contain my joy.

Well, I'm doomed. A rat trapped in a cage. Rat watching captain flee the sinking ship. Rat being forced to read fifty basically identical Linda Skugge columns in one go. Well, you know - that general feeling of entrapment and excrutiating agony, that burning sensation. You have to be someone, do something worthwhile. And while childhood dreams will leave part of you clinging to the hope of someday making it big with your gosh-golly largest ball of belly button lint in the WORLD, 25 finds you grinding your teeth to the realization that No. There is a chance of you wrestling with selling tickets to students and seniors for the rest of your life. Which is no life at all. An absurdity. An anomaly. An "Arlanda or Bromma Airport?"

Paper or Plastic.
Cake or Death.

Meanwhile, Dan, The Generic Roommate, is all doomy and gloomy over another girl. And while I've been doing my usual party tricks, like cleaning the brush of its reserves of hair and taping them to my face in mustach and beardy fashions, crying "Look at me! I'm Hemingway!" - nothing seems to work.

Merde. I don't know what to do when people cry. Hence, I usually stay away from the criers. And the Phobians. Like those who have a phobia of circuses, who I find very funny and exceedingly funny at the same time. Especially those who are afeard something awful of clowns. Never go to the circus with these people. They'll be all like "Oh, Hold me, hold me" and you'll be like "Dude, you're spilling my popcorn." You'll trudge home with snot on your shoulder and popcorn in your hair.

I couldn't hold Dan even if he wanted me to. He belongs to a strange religion which stipulates that thou shalt not hug another unless all your clothes are off and you're ready to get held from behind & sideways for 1,5 to 2 minutes straight. But considering that my body is less a work of art than it is a garbage truck, my clothes flying off tends to turn weepers into shreikers, and tinnitus was never really that sexy. Tears or Tinnitus, tears or tinnitus - is life always this infuriatingly hard?