what's your battle cry? | mewing.net | merchandise!
I like fluffy.
Dreamed, apparently, that Angel told me I should cut my hair. I thought it was real, but when I checked with him this morning he said it wasn't.
Also remembered at the last minute that we have a makeup lecture from Dr. C. about asthma. Lunch and a half-hour lecture over at their place. Which means that I have to dress nice. Why is it that when the newspaper comes to class (Emily: Oh, we're doing ENT exams today? Scott: No, Em, it's your gyne. Emily: Scott! The paper's here!) we can wear our usual jeans-and-t-shirts grubbies, but if we leave the confines of the third floor Classroom-Medical Building and go out in the Big Wide World, we have to Dress Nice? I want to be a doctor in jeans and T-shirts. Or at least comfortable suits.
But I hauled out some clothes of my own, rather than Angel's slacks today - clothes from my brief stint as a Tri-Star representative, in which I sold overpriced overglorified vacuum cleaners to people who couldn't afford them and had just called in to get 8 litres of free pop. A job I think I'm glad I never made any money at and so never actually had to tell anyone I did. I'm shit for a salesperson.
Three hours plus lunch. Three hours plus lunch. Then I can come home and clean up the apartment so we can trash it again tonight.