“I’ve just been blinded by a flaming angel!”

“Oh, hey, I can’t talk right now. I’m doing that angel gig.”

"And the waiter takes Franz Schubert behind the fig tree."

“Was that a spoon?”
“Why yes, it was.”

“…its full of activity. And at the end, for you purists, there’s still a nativity.”

"Follow that flaming angel!"

”So God’s, like, chillin’ in heaven and stuff and he’s like, ‘No way I’m ever going back to earth. The last time I was there, I knocked up some Jewish chick and they’re still talking about it.”

“…after all, I’m the lead! So I’ll put on this wig and I’ll sing like a Swede!”

“Someone should have cracked your skull a long time ago.”

"It was only a spoon..."

“…so I rented Joe Camel.”

“Cherubs from the cherubim. Enjoy.”

“Well, I found his car, but he wasn’t in it.”

“If he takes off his hat…he’ll have an identity crisis.”

“But I’m the stage manager!”
“Oh!”

So that was interesting. Afterward, during the judging, food and karaoke were arranged for us hyper dramarats; I ducked out and headed back to the greenroom. Headache, you understand, and a beckoning book. Besides which, Reyu had taken to lurking about again. Before I left, I had been sitting at a table, watching the madness. He happened to ask if I was all right, which bothered me more than it should have. It didn’t matter whether I answered yea or nay, either one would have served as a direct lead-in into yet another conversation we’ve held a dozen times over. I cannot stand redundant conversations unless I’m the one instigating them; unfortunately, such conversations form the cornerstone of this particular relationship. At any rate, the idea of conversing in mumbled voices in the midst of the festivities was none too appealing. The idea of being under surveillance during said festivities wasn’t much better. These sentiments quickly combined with the head and the book and the room was soon minus one Ivy. Heaven knows what Reyu did then, I was just grateful he didn’t follow me. And that he didn't apologize. More redundancy, that, and over-apologetic people other than myself are slightly.... let's call it ominous, what with the perpetual risk of having every conversation brought up at a later date only to be ruthlessly apologized over.

I'm just full of generalities and hypocrisy today, aren't I? Still, there are only so many times one can say, "No, its all right," and other related phrases within a given amount of time.

And gee whiz, he has access to this thing, doesn’t he? Well, then. Reyu, I would apologize, but I’m not sorry for anything except not censoring myself, which I suppose I shouldn’t be sorry for anyway. However, I don’t want to start exuding those “mixed” facets again; if I’m caustic, it shouldn’t matter too much. In other words, if I was ever too polite, and I’ve reason to believe I was, I’m compensating. Whatever it takes to drive the message home, etc. All in all, I’m not a very pleasant person to be around. Once you get that through your head and voluntarily keep your distance, maybe you won’t mind so much.

No more angst. For reasons beyond my comprehension, I'm starting to feel like a girl.

The science prof gave an hour's worth of notes on Friday, then turned to his computer to look at pictures from his gay friends' vacation. Then, because the most recent quiz yielded rather unatisfactory results, he offered a chance to gain bonus points by throwing candy hearts. Anyone who caught one in their mouth subsequently gained a point. IB Env. Sys. is the way to go.

Jesu Christi, let it snow.

Adieu.