putting the knit in shizknitz

I feel like a writer. I keep these oddly random, strange hours, going to sleep and waking up to type. Too bad the content isn’t terribly interesting, they’re usually just another paper or another for school. When I was younger, I loved to write. Notes, short stories, poems, anything. I still find notebooks here and there of earnest feelings and emotions from long ago. Some I can laugh over, some I still anguish over.

I have a paper and presentation at 1 PM today. Ugh. Must write something.

On a different note, I made a splurge today.