Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep

Things Never To Do Again:

Drink.

Ughhhhhhh.

Dear Diary.

I’ve gone through my emergency NyQuil supply and my Amadeus DVD refuses to play past the part where Salieri says “From now on….you and I…are… enemies” to the crucifix hanging on the wall above his harpsichord, which I understand to be a hint that it might be time for me to reflect on some previously mentioned bad/really really bad decisions, i.e. this:

Hello, new arm! I wonder if you guys can see the file name? It’s “oops.jpg.” GET IT?

No but srsly. This “sick tat bro” balances precariously on some weird invisible line that probably only I recognize which exists between meaningful and totally impulsive/ridiculous. As funny as it would be to tell everyone that I basically got a tattoo as an excuse to cut my cognitive neuroscience class, the truth is I’ve been patiently waiting to summon the balls to get “inked” (read: tatoooed, but I was also hoping to get ink squirted on me by a defensive octopus – or do squids to that? squids? squid) for almost two years. I don’t need to defend myself by going into the “significance” of it, and besides it’s a secret so there!

Anyway, I like it and word on the street is that it makes me look “tough,” although as of now I have managed only to intimidate a nine-year-old girl taking ballet lessons in my office building and I can’t even think about telling my mom about it without peeing myself.

Is it really December?

About that tattoo…

Yeah hi, I actually have it.

What the fuck.