I Like My Coffee Black, Like the Color of My Soul

I've never felt so cultured and artistic as I have the past few weeks of my life.

It all started with Theater and Drama 150: Intro to Acting.

(My sophistication levels simply sky-rocketed from there.)

They were propelled along by Intergrated Liberal Studies 275: American Political Thought and Literature from Paine to Hemmingway.

(My gosh, I'm so ... scholarly.)

Essentially, I spent the greater portion of last week:

1. Brainstorming for a short story for Political Thought / Literature class
2. Going over my options for presenting a depressing, suicidal monologue for Acting

I spent yesterday:

1. Writing my short story at a favorite coffee shop on State St.
2. Attending the thea-ater to see Death of a Salesman
3. Practicing my suicidal monologue

I spent today:

1. Writing my short story and drinking tea while candles burned in our pseudo-fireplace
2. Reading Kerouac (for pleasure)

I've got the black beret, I've got the small black t-shirt, Ashley and I were talking about hosting a "Beat Poetry Night" at 22 S. Orchard.

Now, all I need is black coffee and cigarettes.

Black. Like the color of my soul.

(Notice the disjointed, post-modern style of this blog. It's supposed to represent the disjointed nature of humanity in which ... Oh, wait ... You don't understand what it's supposed to represent? I'm sorry. Then clearly you shouldn't be reading this blog. Because I'm agnsty and presumptuous and only talk with other people who wear black and drink coffee and snap their fingers instead of clapping. You wouldn't understand.)

Snap snap snap snap snap.