I've said before, haven't I, that if I talk too much about myself it's only because I'm an authority on the subject and therefore entitled to pomposity?

Ah. Good.

That said, it was a crisp and cloudy morning and I was heading back to the dorm, having spent the last few hours puttering around with paintbrushes. As befits any good leading lady, I was attired in a breathtaking ensemble composed of scuffed boots, navy blue cargo pants, and an enormous khaki shirt that, for some reason I can't recall, had an old orchestra medal pinned to it. Said shirt was also liberally spattered with red paint, courtesy of a backstage duel.

And as soon as I stepped inside the building, the girl on desk duty gawped at me and cried, "God, Ivy, you look like a dying Nazi."

All right, well I thought it was funny, if only because I've also been puttering around here lately.

As far as more practical things go, insofar as I participate in them at all these days, the meeting with my advisor was painless and I've drawn up no less then five different schedules in case the registration process is as heinous as I foresee. I've also taken to downloading mp3s, and no, this isn't particularly practical but it's not something I've done before. Sadly, now that I'm starting to see the practice's appeal, it's drawing me in. The sugar rush song, however, has been dispatched, and I'm now on a Tori binge, which may not be much better. She's a nice girl and such, but she's also a grade A, class one, turbo-driven fruitcake. Which is an awful shame, since that was looking like a mighty appealing career option to me. But if Tori's got it covered already, I'll have to take my probings elsewhere.

Adieu.