"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."


B-double E-double R-U-N...

Aaaaannd....we're back.
On the hill. I'm feeling pretty indifferent on this the night before class starts. I've been puttering around my room trying to figure out what to do next.
I'd forgotten about the showers. Boiling hot pressure washers. Borderline orgasmic. I've slept here one night since Thursday, but I've taken three showers. Even dirty hippies tend to clean up their acts once they try the showers here. This is especially welcome this time around because there's a whole new crop of Patchouli stink I could do without.
Seriously, what the fuck is up with Patchouli? Is it in some trustifarian handbook somewhere that you must, MUST play hacky sack and bathe in nothing but patchouli? Is it somehow intrinsic to the maintainence of caucasian dreadlocks? I've never been able to stand it, I suspect this is due to the unfortunate stench of one director (no need to name names, you know him or you don't) I worked with on several occasions. The first read-through for Picnic at Hanging Rock made me so ill I missed the following two days of school. Since then Patchouli has made me want to regurgitate the contents of my most recent meal onto the offending party.
Even that probably wouldn't kill the god-awful smell.
I'm readjusting to life with spiders and without locks, but for now I feel exposed. I'm settling in slowly, the shock will wear off soon. I hope.