Hurt, Blurg, Complain.

My feet are made of pain.

Also my heart, but I'm just being melodramatic. URGH! Why do I get to be called a wimp when l'autre jumeau is supposedly in the same position I'm in (i.e. crushing, but not asking out)? How is that fair? 

I just want to know whether it's a waste of time or not. I just want to know that there is equal exchange of angst going on here. 

Rawr, rawr, rawr.

That's just the "angry at male slobs" part of me talking. Seriously, any gents who may or may not read this, LEARN TO CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF. 

A few pointers:

1) Don't clog your drain with hair. IMPOSSIBLY GROSS. ALL POSSIBLE ATTRACTION LOST.

2) Don't think it's hilarious that you don't clean up after yourself. IT MAKES LADIES ANGRY.

3) Learn how to use disinfecting wipes. THEY ARE MADE OF WIN.

Whew.

So much stress just got relieved.

Speaking of stress, improv=not scary! Today, at least. It was the first of a series of Varsity Theatre improv classes, taught by head of Coldtown Theatre (sp?), Mr. J. (Haha, Mr. J, the Joker, haha. Comic book joke.)

Anyways, S.D. and I already rocked a three-sentence Irish potato famine improv, so I think I'm riding the (conversion) train to success!

Woo, woo!

Haha, woo girls. ("How I Met Your Mother" joke.)

I'm petering out. 

Sooooooo tired......

Gotta go get some PreCal done. 

'Night!