I cannot stop eating quesadillas. Seriously, people: like the Irish, before their potato famine, had the potatoes as a staple of the diet, so I have my quesadillas. What catastrophe will come between me and the quesadillas I scarcely dare contemplate.

But the end result here will be a belly, a like-I-am-several-months-along-the-way belly, stuck upon my slender frame. Oh, cheese. Such comfort; such betrayal.

I should stop drinking so much.




I have spare time tonight and no one to talk to and I refuse to do anything productive, REFUSE.

I am starting to think the kid in my practicum class who looks like James Coburn maybe doesn't look as much like him as I'd first felt. This is so sad. Maybe today was an off day for his face.

Ok, I'm done with this entry.