Internet, I got stung by a bee. What the hell. I didn't know that even happened anymore. After that whole killer bee incident, I thought the species had pretty much lost all credibility. But apparently they still sting, and it still hurts as much as that one time when I was seven at Gramma's cabin.
Plus, after a run in with a hair straightener, I am sporting a burn mark on my face. Let it be known that there is no opportune place for an inch-long burn on one's face. That's right. Clumsy is my name, superficial wounds is my game. And don't even get me started on the blister my new friends, Gray Suede Boots gave me.
This weekend I think I'll lock myself in my room to avoid any more catastrophes, yes catastrophes. I'll read the 200 or so pages of Thoreau (see: sleep) that I've been neglecting and feed my addiction to Triscuits that has become rather unhealthy. Love those woven wheats, people.
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