This morning I woke up at 7:42 AM, pulled myself out of bed, and headed down to the sixth floor, where I met up with a wonderful woman for a brief moment before sending her off. My face is falling off and I haven't screwed my brain back in, but it was worth it; we won't see each other until Sunday, and that's just forever for kids our age.

Last night I meant to compose a sonnet to honor her--something like the poem To Helen, which may or may not have been a sonnet. Either way, I failed miserably and ended up writing the thing about myself. It's satisfactory, I suppose; I guess I ought not write the beginning about myself if I only have fourteen lines to get out my point about someone else.

Alas, here it is. Dutifully posted so that you may, as I often do, ignore its existence.

The First

A fellow must remain alone, went conventional thought;
But a fellow may not be chaste when by his lonesome--
To glory and greatness and Godliness he ventured not,
But rather in excess did his virgin flower blossom.
Disheveled, disorderly did he live his unkempt life
While whimsically flitting from point A to B to C,
Dancing his spirited fingers along his imagined fife,
Singing a song of delicious ambivalence and heresy.
But then like an earthquake came the she for this he,
And to rubble did his pathetic convention of self fall,
Binding his spirit with gleeful feeling for little fee,
And paving the way for a fabulous ending after all.
Of course I have changed little but for the loss of nothingness,
Yet though dirty and disgusting, I live with sweet bliss.

Yep. That's it right there. I then set about trying to write the sonnet I'd meant to take care of on that attempt. But I got tired and went to bed. I'm lost at this hopeless romantic thing, I think.

Hasta la byebye.