Regular readers of this journal and/or participants in my daily life already know:
I HATE PACKING. A LOT.
I also hate the fact that I'll be spending seven hours in a car with my mother and one of her friends and all of my shit.
An eight-page paper on the film Fire would be perfectly do-able and even enjoyable to create if I were in any way motivated. As would the German film final.
Grrrrrr.
I hate having an ex-girlfriend. Totally unhelpful. People expect me to know what's up with her, and I have to constantly remind them that I'm no longer privy to her life.
I HATE PACKING. A LOT.
I also hate the fact that I'll be spending seven hours in a car with my mother and one of her friends and all of my shit.
An eight-page paper on the film Fire would be perfectly do-able and even enjoyable to create if I were in any way motivated. As would the German film final.
Grrrrrr.
I hate having an ex-girlfriend. Totally unhelpful. People expect me to know what's up with her, and I have to constantly remind them that I'm no longer privy to her life.