Writing the index for a book is not as fun as it at first seems. Neither is losing money at poker, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
Amidst the fire-fight of my month from hell, I peek my shell-shocked eyes out for only a second before hiding in my helmet and ducking for cover again. Narrowly avoiding an artillery shell from the Quebec employment office, I step directly on a mine, placed by McGill, of a Study-Permit application error.
It's just one more thing to deal with. I told Deane that there's a tiny bit of space left on my plate... If I stop showering and eat only one meal per day. But who needs showers, anyway?
My dental hygienist says that I'm really cute when I'm fussing with the suction tube... or wincing while she scrapes at my gums with an iron hook. And the guy at the McGill registrars office says I'm only a part-time student until I register for a few more psych classes that I don't want to take. Marit says that I look tired. Chase says that my life is a shit-a-caine. Deane says that I suck a poker and should quit while I'm still sucking. Dave says that my knowledge of isomers needs work. God says its too rainy to ride my bike.
At least my mom thinks I'm cool.
I think I'm doing alright.
"I can do anything." But that's just my opinion. Zac.
