Pony Club meeting tonight.  Someone come save me.  If not, it's an evening of locking myself upstairs and hugging the computer monitor.  Do not condemn me to this fate -slash- go gently into that good night!  (Old age should burn and rave at close of day.  Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  Or the machine.  They're really not too picky.)

QUICK!  ART STUDENTS/THOSE WITH A REALLY GOOD EYE FOR COLOUR!!!!  What goes with pale yellow that doesn't make the combination too sugary??

So my essays for GWU are complete.  Not finished mind you, but complete.  I just have to trim the first one down and flatter them insanely, and inflate the diction on the second.  Again, still having a passionate love-hate relationship with the thesaurus.  Gracious, I want to attend GWU so badly.  I *heart* D.C.

Whenever I come close to finding It, I run away.

Yeah, so I'm seriously contemplating extensions.  Not a waist-length platinum carpet, mind you, but something that touches the collarbone, or a little longer.  They would be ideal because I lack the patience to grow my hair out.  The intervening stages are too painful; I know because I've been trying for years, but then promptly get fed up after about 4 months and rush back to the scissors, crying, "Save me!"  But no, a weave would be so much easier.  And fun.  Yay!

I talk about the most infernally *bleeping* superficial things on this site.
I'm ashamed.  College and hair extensions.  What a mess I am.

But I'm not much for airing my emotional laundry because it places undue burden on others in the form of Unwanted Drivel-ly Gripings Nobody Wants to Hear.  Because really, the world has enough of its own problems, and who I am to exacerbate the situation?  Children are dying from AIDS and malnutrition simultaneously, and here I am angsty because I'm perpetually single.  Such a paradox.  I could be a Mexican girl sold into sexual slavery instead of agonising over applications.  I could be the man standing by the freeway holding a sign begging for money -- one who actually needs it.  I could be undergoing the last wave of chemotherapy as doctors and nurses whisper increasingly short life expectancies.  I could have been Sohane, a French Muslim burned to death by her boyfriend's enemy, because of something irritating her boyfriend had done.  I could be a member of the lowest Hindu caste -- the Untouchables -- doomed to a life of squalor in every incarnation after this miserable one by the riverside.  I could be the veteran rotting in a nursing home as Alzheimer's wipes away final memories of the family who left him there fifteen years ago.  Who's to say it won't be me the next go-round?  Who's to say it won't be you?