this is the equivalent of me blowing my nose into the internet

So, okay, I'm sick now. And I have an assignment on Keats and one on the Victorians to prepare by the end of the day today. I haven't even read the Victorian stuff. And my head is so full of phlegm that I can't begin to fathom how to talk about what the function of imagination is, or how that function is Romantic, especially not as it pertains to Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale." So instead, I blog, because it doesn't require a working brain.

I went to my company's Christmas party last night, where my boss got absolutely fucking hammered within the first hour and went around telling people she was horny and slapping them for not dancing with her. Then I watched a friend of a friend just barely stop himself from crying because his dog died recently (the dog understood him, people). Later, he proceeded to inform his boss, who called him from China with work to do, that he couldn't do it because he was completely shitfaced. A perfectly competent band called, according to the invitation, "A 'Touch of Soul'" played. (A friend who no longer works there but got invited to the party anyway suggested that we get Gwar next year, a proposition I wholeheartedly support.) Somewhere in all that we watched an insufferably awful — and stultifyingly boring — murder mystery play. We then had to fill out questionnaires to see who could come closest to solving the mystery. I filled mine out using the name Washington Irving, and guessed that one of the characters died of scurvy, and the other was shot by John Wilkes Booth. I was trying to be funny, but as you can see I failed utterly (in my defense, my head was full of phlegm and I wasn't drunk at all). Then later I felt guilty for insulting the murder mystery troupe.

Will someone please notify J.R.R. Tolkein that the phrase "chainless winds" can kick "cellar door"'s ass.