Which means my brain is categorically refusing to have anything to do with any manner of reading/ studying/ absorbing/ learning. I am hoping that I still have some flying-by-the-seat-of-my-pants left in me. Meanwhile my thoughts are pulling apart in many vague, irrelevant directions.
Please enlist them, Gyuri, we're so intrigued?
Well when you put it like that... here's some of them. (If I'm wasting precious minutes not studying, it's because of you.)
My mind is like an industrial strength sieve. Nothing sticks, my memory's developed leaks, details just elude me. It's why, though I'm decently read, you'll often hear me talking about 'that book' in which 'that guy, no no that other guy' did 'that thing'.
I really, really like how women look when they're playing the guitar. I think more than wanting to play the guitar for 'the music', it was wanting to look that way that made me get one. Then I found the strings really, really hurt the fingers, you know? I still harbour some ambition on this account, though.
I'm convinced my exam centre is a place of knowledge by day, and a urinal for weary truckers by night. Will I be carting unholy amounts of tissue along for my papers? You bet!
I don't think the world can afford to lose Terry Pratchett. Or Havelock Vetinari. Or Sargeant Nobbs, or Captain Vimes or Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler or Granny Weatherwax. The whole Discworld really. And it's going to.
Letting go of the past functions much like my Mum's Asthalin pump. One minute you're suffocating, next minute you're exhaling with relief. Your chest doesn't feel constricted anymore, you can hear better, and your eyesight clears right up.
Cheesy lines only irritate when they're being used on everyone but you.
I have not been out in longer than I care to remember. Mojitos, some retro music and good company is a cliche I could very much use right now.
The minute I get a sense that you're playing to the gallery, you've lost me. The minute I get a sense that you don't care what I think about you, you've got me.
I cannot wait to land another role in a play. Even if it's a minute long. Barring that, being backstage hand sounds pretty good too.
I've met a bunch of people who do not have Facebook accounts. They're alive, well and seem to be thriving socially nonetheless. With a very low propensity for breaking out into impromptu photo-sessions, I might add.
I say 'fuck' too much. People think it's very unbecoming. Let them think. Fuck.
Dlisted has been an endless repository of sadistic laughs. Michael K, you're going straight to hell. I hope you aren't gay as a pink unicorn there because we can do sexy times when I get up there myself.
I haven't been crazy mad in a long time. Irritable, yes. Cross, yes. Mad, no. I'm certain it's not because I'm a mature adult. I just don't think I care enough. Oh well. All's the better for me. I look ten kinds of ugly when I'm mad.
If I pass this exam, I'll feel bad for people who actually studied. If I don't, it will be right only.