12:43 a.m. - 2002-03-26

I'm still busy wringing my hands and I've been poetry-hopping. Not a good combination:

Green Eggs and Hamlet

I ask to be or not to be.
That is the question I ask of me.
This sullied life, it makes me shudder.
My uncle's boffing dear sweet mother.
Would I, could I take me life?
Could I, should I end this strife?
Should I jump out of a plane?
Or throw myself before a train?
Should I from a cliff just leap?
Could I put myself to sleep?
Shoot myself ot take some poison?
Maybe try self immolation?
To shudder off this mortal coil,
I could stab myself with a fencing foil.
Slash my wrists while in the bath?
Would it end my angst and wrath?
To sleep, to dream, now there's the rub.
I could drop a toaster in my tub.
Would all be glad if I were dead?
Could I perhaps kill them instead?
This line of thought takes consideration-
For I'm the king of procrastination.

The Maastricht quasi-concert was tonight and went as well as can be expected. There are only ten orch rats going on the trip: a few hesitant underclassmen, a few brilliant upperclassmen, and one orchestra dropout. We're going to rock the recepetions of central Europe, oh yes.

I shouldn't be writing, but I've been doing it all day, sadly enough. I should be doing something worthwhile, like volunteering or studying, something that's going to show up on my transcript. I should stop thinking about the shoulds. Nothing is ever the end of the world.

Ah. Its late, quite late. No wonder I'm not making any sense. Well, then.

So Rosencrantz and Guildenstern go to't.

Me too, Horatio dear.

Adieu.