No one mourns the wicked

Had a weird dream last night:

My old high school wanted to put on The Wiz again with the original cast of characters. I was slim in the dream, and I wanted Evillene's costume to be black tights, a leopard print leotard, and my black mesh shirt. Ms. L. was mad, though, because I was singing No Good Deed instead of No Bad News.


Yeah. Weird.

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I'm eating breakfast right now at 3 in the afternoon, which is a sordid affair involving a spoon and a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Aah, college life.

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I hate hypocrisy. Like when people tell you to pick up after yourself yet their laundry is strewn all over the place. Just as a random example.

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Had a mild panic this morning at 4 am. I found a lump in my armpit. I immediately thought this little monologue, or something like it: A lump! Oh my goddess, cancer! Oh, I'm going to die! I'm 18, I'm too young to die! What about my career as a broadway star? Oh, will this screw up the trip to Guatemala? What about my classes? Will I need chemo? Will I lose a breast and look like an Amazon, which would improve my archery skills but kill my sex life dead like a lightning bolt hits a frog?

Mind you, I hadn't slept, so I was a bit paranoid. So I got it checked out and it's a surface lump. Slap some hydrocortisone cream on it and I'll be good as new. Or good as I was before, which was slightly used.

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Well, I just finished the pint, meaning I'm out of ice cream, meaning I need to go shopping with the 15-odd dollars I have to last me till Tuesday. Fun.

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"My road of good intentions led where such roads always lead..." --Elphaba, Wicked, No Good Deed.


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Adiosa all
Jagged