Extract from a Trump rally:
" I love you. [unintelligable nonsense] I LOVE YOU! [enthusiastic sentimental drivel]"
Me talking to my cat: see above. Both events may be punctuated by unsettling attempts to kiss a begrudging or indifferent party. If my cat were with me now, nesting impractically and adorably atop my revision notebook, I would pick her up, cradle her in my arms and whisper softly into her ear:
"Who's going to pay for the wall?"
My cat is not here. I must get back to work.
UPDATE:
I did go back to work. I went back to work with such vigour and dedication that I could find no time to write my blog. The exams are over now, and all is well. So far this semester I have missed no less than 100 percent of my lectures. I spent a significant portion of the morning transcribing my academic timetable onto a blank page at the back of my diary.
I've got a diary now. Before I had a diary, I used to think that owning a diary would change my life. I imagined that somehow the act of writing two word sentences into an A7 booklet would transform the outward realisation of my very character, effectively metamorphasising me into a new, better, more reliable, less confused young man.
As it turns out, all of these imaginings were demonstrably justifiable. Gone is the David Lovell of yesteryear, whose immense popularity and underwhelming organisational skills tragically conspired to condemn him to an eternity of double bookings and forgotten rendevous. And where is the bumbing yet affable gentleman who would neglect to attend events at which he had every intention of appearing, and then fret concerning the implication of his abscence in the minds and hearts of his friends? By these same friends he will be dearly missed. He is no more, and in his place stands a mysterious, somewhat dashing figure with unnerving foreknowledge, constantly consulting a dog-earred book that charts the phases of the moon, into which he inscribes illegible glyphs that are said to reveal the very future.
I went to a lecture this morning in which the lecturer attempted to use a google document as a form of responseware. Obviously it was totally useless for that purpose, but it worked well as a public forum via which we collectively expressed our disdain at having to endure yet another management module, and our love of willy emoticons. Weirldy, she just left it running for a full five minutes, during which we were basically rendered unresponsive by our childish hysterics.
okay bye
" I love you. [unintelligable nonsense] I LOVE YOU! [enthusiastic sentimental drivel]"
Me talking to my cat: see above. Both events may be punctuated by unsettling attempts to kiss a begrudging or indifferent party. If my cat were with me now, nesting impractically and adorably atop my revision notebook, I would pick her up, cradle her in my arms and whisper softly into her ear:
"Who's going to pay for the wall?"
My cat is not here. I must get back to work.
UPDATE:
I did go back to work. I went back to work with such vigour and dedication that I could find no time to write my blog. The exams are over now, and all is well. So far this semester I have missed no less than 100 percent of my lectures. I spent a significant portion of the morning transcribing my academic timetable onto a blank page at the back of my diary.
I've got a diary now. Before I had a diary, I used to think that owning a diary would change my life. I imagined that somehow the act of writing two word sentences into an A7 booklet would transform the outward realisation of my very character, effectively metamorphasising me into a new, better, more reliable, less confused young man.
As it turns out, all of these imaginings were demonstrably justifiable. Gone is the David Lovell of yesteryear, whose immense popularity and underwhelming organisational skills tragically conspired to condemn him to an eternity of double bookings and forgotten rendevous. And where is the bumbing yet affable gentleman who would neglect to attend events at which he had every intention of appearing, and then fret concerning the implication of his abscence in the minds and hearts of his friends? By these same friends he will be dearly missed. He is no more, and in his place stands a mysterious, somewhat dashing figure with unnerving foreknowledge, constantly consulting a dog-earred book that charts the phases of the moon, into which he inscribes illegible glyphs that are said to reveal the very future.
I went to a lecture this morning in which the lecturer attempted to use a google document as a form of responseware. Obviously it was totally useless for that purpose, but it worked well as a public forum via which we collectively expressed our disdain at having to endure yet another management module, and our love of willy emoticons. Weirldy, she just left it running for a full five minutes, during which we were basically rendered unresponsive by our childish hysterics.
okay bye
