I have been awake for twenty-one hours exactly, as of this minute in time.
I put my bedding into the drier, in an attempt to get warm. My moderately-accidental frou frou indie rock wardrobe does not accommodate for snow.
I stared at the drier for a moment, before deciding that it was indeed physically possible for me to fit into the drier. While suffocating me and possibly breaking a bone or two, this would be a far more effective method of warming up.
After leaving Ben to blissfully pass out at the tender hour of twelve after two, I returned to my car and found a phone message from David, drunk somewhere downtown. I picked up David and he suggested Denny's...I was tired, but curious to find out if Bijoy and Michael had successfully appealed their suspensions from CU.
I somehow suppressed the urge to drink coffee. Sadly, for some reason, I am still awake. This is all right - the coffee at Denny's is nothing more than glorified congealed animal fat.
David and I discussed the bittersweet non-sensation of platonicism as I chastized him for his failing (but notedly not yet failed) relationship. For the last few years, I have had no 'romantic' notions towards the opposite sex, save for an occasional and passing 'If I were in a relationship with this-close-male-friend, it would not be wildly unsuccessful'.
But there is something desirable, something distressingly cute about the melodramatic 'feelings' of first loves and high school romances. I suppose that first loves fail to factor rationality or logic into the equation of romance, which is possibly while they are more 'successful' (read: longer) than other relationships.
Due to the lack of constant Internet access at my house in Greeley, any writing that appears on this site is a result of either sleep deprivation or moments of boredom passing between classes. I would like to think that I'm slightly more intelligent than can be observed here, but I'm not entirely sure. It is possible that I am less intelligent than even this pathetic weblog gives me credit for.
Oh, the cheery thoughts that lead me to bed.
Now I shall sleep, and dream, hopefully not about being smothered with a pillow mid-coitus. This was the fate of Penelope Cruz earlier in the evening, but luckily, it was not mine. I cannot think of a more unpleasant time to die, except for possibly in line at the post office.