The Doctor is Incoming.
I think that one of the reasons I haven't blogged, or wanted to blog in such a long time, is because, if you hadn't guessed by now, I'm in Love. It's the BOMB. A bomb which consumes me - not consumed as in wanting to be with him all the time, (which I am) or thinking that the world will implode if I do not hear his voice that day (which it never has, but I'm ruling out any possibilities.) But it has wrapped me up in a cocoon of goodness through which no coherent words can escape. No words can encompass this. This wondrous thing.
This human being. This Andreas. This best friend turned better.
And I don't want to become one of those wankers who spends more time speaking of their respective partners than say, gum diseases or overpopulation. I don't want to become one of those persons who publishes couples' pictures, in which the couples share that perpetual half-dazed post-orgasmic grin that makes you look like you're on medication, or if not, should bloody well be.
Don't want to become one of those people who blog cute anecdotes about how cute their boyfreinds are or what cute thing the boyfreind said because he's so cuuute, cute like a little baby bird cute, cute like a little baby bird with-a-pink-ribbon-around-its-foot-cute; RIBBONS WITH PUPPY DOGS ATTATCHED TO EITHER END CUTE. Cause I don't think I'm built for that sort of thing. Sooner or later, it'll all lash back and I'd be having to compensate by ending each sentence with something terribly uncute or unromantic, like booger. Smegma. Mystery Meat.
The world would become a very odd and confusing place. Autumn enrollments has gotten the ball rolling already. I finally decided upon English, maybe even picking up a degree along the way. not that I'm sure what a degree in English is good for. The international sign that you've read David Copperfeild, or that you were planning on writing a book but never got past the table of contents, even though you really really tried. But Doctor Creep has a nice ring to it though. I'd let the colleagues closest to me call me D.C at office parties, and make allowances for the cooler students and the widows, because they're widowed and all, not many priveleges there. Maybe I'll give them my business card.
The Parents are very understanding regarding my late career choice - each year I ask my mother if they're not disappointed in me for delaying any prospective degree, my mother answers : "It's ALLRIGHT dear. Your father didn't get his degree till he was 34. " Of course, this response was given three years ago when I was planning on becoming a religions expert. Two years ago when I Knew that God meant for me scrap the whole religion business and become a guidance counsellor, my father "didn't get his degree till he was 37" Now that it's 2004 and I'm aiming for an english degree in the obscure year of 2012, my father "Didn't get his degree till he was ... uuuh ... FORTY." I'm thinking that if I wait a few more years with deciding on what to do, my father and I should be able to graduate together. Very understanding, my parents, and very senile.
Not sure if I'll ever get anywhere the esteemed Doctor's title though. Sadly enough, I seem to have this gentic diesease of the thyroid that takes my B or C papers, vital for continuing a course, and making them bad, maybe even downright evil. At deadline-day it's not so much a case of the cat eating my homework, as a "Here's a cat. She be Lulu." scenario. Never really works, but never ceases to amaze either, for which no points whatsoever are awarded.
"Artistic freedoms!"
"No, it's a cat!"
"...Which I have appropriately named Lulu"
The above is complete rubbish, of course, but revealing that you wrote an essay in which you predicted the destruction of all religion, everywhere - and according to the paper for no apparent reason at all - seemed slightly less interesting. But there are two predictions that I can make with most certainty and no cat - that these four or five or maybe eight years of studies ahead of me will be interesting, and in need of many prayers. And that for these prayers, I can count on Andreas, my better half, my One True Love. Ssssmegma.
This human being. This Andreas. This best friend turned better.
And I don't want to become one of those wankers who spends more time speaking of their respective partners than say, gum diseases or overpopulation. I don't want to become one of those persons who publishes couples' pictures, in which the couples share that perpetual half-dazed post-orgasmic grin that makes you look like you're on medication, or if not, should bloody well be.
Don't want to become one of those people who blog cute anecdotes about how cute their boyfreinds are or what cute thing the boyfreind said because he's so cuuute, cute like a little baby bird cute, cute like a little baby bird with-a-pink-ribbon-around-its-foot-cute; RIBBONS WITH PUPPY DOGS ATTATCHED TO EITHER END CUTE. Cause I don't think I'm built for that sort of thing. Sooner or later, it'll all lash back and I'd be having to compensate by ending each sentence with something terribly uncute or unromantic, like booger. Smegma. Mystery Meat.
The world would become a very odd and confusing place. Autumn enrollments has gotten the ball rolling already. I finally decided upon English, maybe even picking up a degree along the way. not that I'm sure what a degree in English is good for. The international sign that you've read David Copperfeild, or that you were planning on writing a book but never got past the table of contents, even though you really really tried. But Doctor Creep has a nice ring to it though. I'd let the colleagues closest to me call me D.C at office parties, and make allowances for the cooler students and the widows, because they're widowed and all, not many priveleges there. Maybe I'll give them my business card.
The Parents are very understanding regarding my late career choice - each year I ask my mother if they're not disappointed in me for delaying any prospective degree, my mother answers : "It's ALLRIGHT dear. Your father didn't get his degree till he was 34. " Of course, this response was given three years ago when I was planning on becoming a religions expert. Two years ago when I Knew that God meant for me scrap the whole religion business and become a guidance counsellor, my father "didn't get his degree till he was 37" Now that it's 2004 and I'm aiming for an english degree in the obscure year of 2012, my father "Didn't get his degree till he was ... uuuh ... FORTY." I'm thinking that if I wait a few more years with deciding on what to do, my father and I should be able to graduate together. Very understanding, my parents, and very senile.
Not sure if I'll ever get anywhere the esteemed Doctor's title though. Sadly enough, I seem to have this gentic diesease of the thyroid that takes my B or C papers, vital for continuing a course, and making them bad, maybe even downright evil. At deadline-day it's not so much a case of the cat eating my homework, as a "Here's a cat. She be Lulu." scenario. Never really works, but never ceases to amaze either, for which no points whatsoever are awarded.
"Artistic freedoms!"
"No, it's a cat!"
"...Which I have appropriately named Lulu"
The above is complete rubbish, of course, but revealing that you wrote an essay in which you predicted the destruction of all religion, everywhere - and according to the paper for no apparent reason at all - seemed slightly less interesting. But there are two predictions that I can make with most certainty and no cat - that these four or five or maybe eight years of studies ahead of me will be interesting, and in need of many prayers. And that for these prayers, I can count on Andreas, my better half, my One True Love. Ssssmegma.
