Hello, Jane Doe

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't listening to the eponymous album by Converge while typing this, but that's ok. So apparently I may have (had) strep throat, so that's why I wasn't out in the blogosphere, nattering away for your sick pleasure. Thank god (in Canada) a man can still buy T1's O.T.C.

IBUPROFEN/ACETAMINOPHEN ISN'T ENOUGH, YOU FUCKING QUACKS.

 I find myself at a turning point in life, where I've found just enough to be content with. It's not a long-lasting or ideal contentedness, but it's one nonetheless. I don't care that (minus Japanese and German) I don't know a single person in my classes. I don't care that I don't bump into friends on the bus or at the Rideau Centre, or that I don't have an exorbitant list of people to call upon for solace from myself. It doesn't seem to matter at the moment.

On a brighter note, I hope you all enjoyed the email that I DID send to my would-be psychologist. (I mistakenly called him a psychiatrist in the email...oh well.) It was most cathartic to hit that little 'Send' button.

His Inauspicious Syllogism is lengthening - 145 pages now. 7/10ths done, I would guess.

But that's but an approximation.

-M