The dead communicate

Once you're dead on one cares how it happened. Bullet, knife, bad meat or great sex- as soon as your heart stops pumping and you're stricken with rigor mortis it's like ordering a diet coke with your bigmac: it doesn't matter. But this week I have 3 papers, a lab report AND a midterm. And then on Friday I am writing essays for dental school. Kill me now! But it gets worse. Saturday is the Sabbath for our curly haired/short penised friends but for me it's the day when I finally realize my dream to die sweaty, tired and alone 8 miles into a dark forest where even the friendliest of squirrels need my nuts for their dinner. Abundant with leaves and dense with moss and ferns, upon closer inspection the forest floor may serve as an adequate place for me to eternally rest my head. Immediately after cursing Charles one final time, I will peacefully work on leaving the living and decompose in the way God intended us to do so. Sweaty, tired, alone, and clutching my free shirt I paid the $35 registration fee to receive.


also, this was my last entry that didn't get entered for some strange reason:

So this race I'm participating in is Halloween themed. We're supposed to dress up, which means not only will I get last place but I'll lose to a man in a dress. However I've decided to wear a livestrong band and go as Lance Armstrong. Also, I will ride my bike to complete my costume.