So I had a dream, most of which I've forgotten. The one fragment that, unfortunately, remains in my memory involves prom and J. Alfred Prufrock (yes, this one... I doubt there's another). He really was thin and balding, and he even took a break from his introspective/schizophrenic stream of consciousness long enough to inform me that my robe should be golden, my robe should be perfect, instead of this ragged concoction of thread, etc. It might actually have been amusing at one point, but instead I felt a powerful urge to kick the man.

I've since decided that if anyone sneers at the fourteen-dollar dress then he or she will promptly and graciously be whacked over the head with the silvery four-inch heel of a five-dollar shoe. Might as well put them to some use other than that of murdering my feet. They are rather nice, though, as shoes go, and contacting them with the granite skull of a classmate might not be all that prudent. Drat. I don't normally have violent tendecies, really...

So. I woke up and headed downstairs, where I was nearly mowed down by the littlest Gorgon. He was tearing into the basement with a herd of friends, which of course has priority over maiming a sibling, and yelling, "Barak Khazad!"

I blinked for a little while, which seemed appropriate, and went back upstairs. Save me, Elrond...

No point to this entry, naturally. I should be writing about how style is everything and substance is nothing. Take-home test for English. Right. I should probably start on that soon.

Adieu.