And then.

It's eleven, and I just walked in the house, returning from that damned swim meet. Went straight there after academic practice...

Today, I realized something. Or, rather, I acknowledged my having realized something. I'm not sure if it's sad or not, or if it's sad, if I'm the only one who thinks it's sad, and if it's not sad, if everyone but me thinks it is. Sad, that is. Or isn't.
Now, with that confusing preamble: I've got so much stuff to do that I never actually get involved in any of it. So much homework I didn't go to IHOP with the team at ten thirty with the team. Because what's better than that? So many clubs during advisory that I can't make any of the meetings. And all of this takes away from my ability to read or learn anything outside of the regular confinement we all have to suffer through.
Yesterday, in English, we talked about death imagery. A-fucking-gain. (See? An infix. Something I learned from an English teacher, not in English class.) She wouldn't call on me. Apparently, my cup runneth over with participation points. I have a ninety nine percent in her class, and I haven't tried on anything in three months. Anyway, instead of listen to her, I read "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," which was immensely more educational, and least for the, "In the room the women come and go. Talking of Michelangelo," line that comes up in academic bowl.

Moral of the story is that I really have nothing interesting to say about anything because I'm too busy having something interesting to say about everything.


"Well the sword-swallower he comes up to you and then he kneels
He crosses himself and then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice he asks you how it feels
And he says 'Here is your throat back, thanks for the loan'
And you know something is happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?"
--Dylan.