UGH. (vous avez un visage hideux, aller au diable.)

timetable is NOT good this semester. i have unbelievably long days which start from eight to six. basically, i start in the Mornings across the board. and i have Wednesdays FREE. hell, i'd rather attend five short days than four long days. what am i suppose to do with a free day!

tsk. i foresee sloppy outfits and dull expressions. to think i was so motivated to dress up ever since i started using the L'oreal foundation cause it gives me unbelievable nice skin. we all know how much i love sleep and sacrificing it to look good for school is like ugh. major dilemma and i hate to make choices. maybe i'll just walk around with shades and a hoodie. oh i am grumbling, all that i say do not make good sense now.

anyways, hear this out.

The Boy I Left Behind - Theoretical Girl

such a pretty sound. quirky quirky lyrics.

i have a new mystery - involving a certain anonymous with impeccable english and fancy for poetry, adding me on msn - to solve. they always say curiosity kills the cat. well, let's just say, i am one lucky kitty not dead yet. heh.

i leave you with a poem, darlings. pretty awesome one; i think i remember it from O's. or somewhat.

-

Blackberry-picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Seamus Heaney