Going out, maybe, with an actual girl tonight. Maybe even could call it a date?
If she calls me back. After she invited me out, I left her a message saying I wasn't sure, what with the crazy weather today. (For those of you not in NE Ohio, we had one of the biggest storms I've ever seen in my life... for about fifteen minutes. The sky was GREEN. I was at work... someone pointed out that there was a convertible outside with the top down... it was full of hail).
But I digress. I told her I might not come out, but the weather seems to have held steady... I'm waiting for her to call me back, cause I don't know where we were supposed to meet. Fok.
So... back to nakey people.
Here's the first e e cummings poem I ever read... i did a totally sweet analysis of it for English 102.
pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
-electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh
and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go
If she calls me back. After she invited me out, I left her a message saying I wasn't sure, what with the crazy weather today. (For those of you not in NE Ohio, we had one of the biggest storms I've ever seen in my life... for about fifteen minutes. The sky was GREEN. I was at work... someone pointed out that there was a convertible outside with the top down... it was full of hail).
But I digress. I told her I might not come out, but the weather seems to have held steady... I'm waiting for her to call me back, cause I don't know where we were supposed to meet. Fok.
So... back to nakey people.
Here's the first e e cummings poem I ever read... i did a totally sweet analysis of it for English 102.
pity this busy monster,manunkind,
not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)
plays with the bigness of his littleness
-electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh
and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical
ultraomnipotence. We doctors know
a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go
