fibbabaloobadoo.

So, the test, the test that is tomorrow but that's optional? Remember that test? The test that was called "The Optional Final," the "It has 200 Questions, and Taking it won't Help Anyone's Grade" -- "So DON'T GO!!"? That test? SILLY PEOPLE. That's not the Optional Final. The Optional Final is NEXT WEEK. This IS NOT OPTIONAL. This one is all about sex and drugs (and rock'n'roll). This is where those missing 120 points were when I tallied up my grade last night and was horrified that I apparently had a B.

Crap.

I have three more pages to write tonight on a paper, though, and that's more important -- the test won't be that difficult -- it's mostly just, umm, common sense and listening to the SexTalk.

I've been eating all day, because I have a sore throat, and the only time it feels passably okay to swallow, is when I'm swallowing something of substance -- namely, saltine crackers or runts. Otherwise, the routine is something like this: Swallow, Grimace, "Ouch!" Make a Face. Swallow, Grimace, "Ouch!" Make a Face. Repeat.

I bought shoes today -- beautiful, lovely, spring sandals. I knew they were the right ones; Kristen and I went into separate aisles in the store (call her "Cinderella;" she's the one with the cute little feet), and I saw The Sandals, but not in my size, and called over to her, across the shelves, "I'll bet they won't have these in my size!" Went over to the Giant Feet section, and there they were!! I had just pulled one out of the box, when Kristen came hopping over to where I was, sporting new footwear -- "Look!" "Look!" And they were the same beautiful green sandals. I bought them; she didn't, which was quite a feat (feet, get it? har har), and when I got back home, I even repainted my toenails and everything. Can't wear these snazzy new sandals with old polish, no Sir.

I'm going to take the laptop over to the student center and work on my paper over there.

smooch.