"But ah'm not afraid of dyin'. Cause I know that when I get to heaven there are gonna be these wonderful trees, and ah'm gonna climb them. But you know what? Instead of leaves and flowers, those trees are gonna have fried eggs, and delicious Virginia ham, and big heaping bowls of biscuits and sausage gravy. And one day, Sammy, you're gonna meet me there, and we're gonna climb those breakfast trees together, and it's gonna be delicious and we're gonna be happy until the end of time."


The Damien Clause

Final Art History class today. Five classes, four semesters, one nasal professor. Over.
Watched a movie in class in celebration. Not the class, mind you, just me, Chris, and occasionally our surrounding classmates. I haven't seen it any other way, but I'm pretty sure the optimal method for enjoying Bad(der) Santa is with the sound off, during a lecture on Impressionism.
Don't get me wrong, I HEART art history, but Carol has a knack for sucking every last morsel of fun from it, and Billy Bob Thornton fucking the bejeezus out of Lauren Graham's body double in a jacuzzi puts it right back in.
Also my last day (for now) of assisting for six hours at the end of an already long day. It was refreshingly uneventful, but I did throw on Michael Jackson's Number Ones (or something), and Sean and I broke it down on opposite sides of the studio while Jessie and Anderson toiled at the furnace. That album has become a favorite in the hot shop because it provides a chronological auditory tour through the genius and madness of the great Michael Jackson. And the first 7 tracks or so just rock the fuck out.
Don't. Stop. 'til. You. Get. Enough.
My final blowslot of the semester is Sunday afternoon, then I'm just a loser with no purpose in life for another month and a week.
Wholly looking forward to that.