Finals today were bad and nothing. English= shudder. Anne Bradstreet's poem "Author of Her Book" has a controlling metaphor comparing the raising of a child to the writing of a book. Similar, yes? According to her. Sullivan Ballou's letter to Sarah before he died. Literary terms. Not so bad. Drama was nothing since I already took the final so I just watched other people do their scenes. I wanted to go to Anacapa but people are lame and Barbara and I didn't want to go unless it was a big group. How sad. I am sure everyone missed our visiting. I was like Indiana Jones today. Locked out. Sucks. But I used my ingenuity. Climbed through the window. All or nothing. ROck me. Second story. Made a ladder out of a lawn chair to get up. You can all call me Indiana. But that wasn't my last crusade. Promise. A wealth of records has become mine. Some are in majorly bad shape. No worries. I need to meet new people. New guys to be specific. I want to do something tonight but most likely nothing will be arranged and things will go up in smoke. Split metaphors taking away from the overall paragraph. =P I am going to go to Oxford. Then I am going to meet the Rolling Stones. Then my goal will be achieved. And things will be good. Spectacular, spectacular. "Moulin Rouge" rocks. Seriously. I love that movie. You know what else rocks? "Cherish". That movie is so totally awesome. Definitely. It's the dog's bollocks. I got live if you want it. I do. I got obsession if you want it to. Indiana is off to fight some Nazis now. Goodbye. I wanna tell you how it's gonna be You're gonna give your love to me I'm gonna love you night and day Love is love and not fade away