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[22 Sep 2003|04:10pm]
[ music | "The River" -Bruce Springsteen ]

Mmm. So the power's back, which is excellent.. I had been without my computer, iPod and microwave for much too long. Not to mention hot showers and air conditioning. We humans are much too dependent on this "electricity."

Only downside of having the power back is that I don't get to go to the library today. I'd been planning to go and use their computer, I'd even spent the entire english period making a booklist that I was pretty psyched to fill. And now that we have power again, no one seems too inspired to deliver me to the library. Eh.. oh well, I can probably get there this weekend.

In other news, homecoming has been resheduled(?) for the 25th of next month, which is great because I'll be in California.. and oh, shucks.. won't be able to attend. That means I can return my ticket and get back my mother's fifteen dollars which she has surely forgotten about by now. (Unearned money is always a good thing.) It also means that I won't be here for the ever so lovely pep rally, which is a shame since I was so looking forward to being hazed with paint by the upperclassmen. Yes, world.. Hitler does live through those who have seniority.

Hmm.. this sudden regain of power has really killed all hopes of me getting work done tonight. All I want to do is play on this thing, flick switches on and off, and take a nice warm shower. Ah yes, and charge the iPod. And if I'm feeling really daring I may even blow dry my hair. But that is absolutely it.

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[22 Sep 2003|06:34pm]
[ music | "This Song Has No Title" -Elton John ]

Tune me in to the wild side of life
I’m an innocent young child sharp as a knife
Take me to the garretts where the artists have died
Show me the courtrooms where the judges have lied
Let me drink deeply from the water and the wine
Light coloured candles in dark dreary mines
Look in the mirror and stare at myself
And wonder if that’s really me on the shelf
Take me down alleys where the murders are done
In a vast high powered rocket to the core of the sun
Want to read books in the studies of men
Born on the breeze and die on the wind
If I was an artist who paints with his eyes
I’d study my subject and silently cry

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