I find it cynically laughable that when one major aspect of your life takes a turn for the worse, so do many others. When I am able to take a step back from the monstrosity that my life has presently become, it is quite ironic. Call me a pessimist if you will; it wouldn't be a false inference.

Having yet to emerge from the cloud of feminist rage that I have been emanating over the past several days, I have found contentment within it. Yes, being constantly pissed off has actually allowed me some happiness. Who knew a change in my usual perky attitude to an overall "fuck you" persona could enhance so many dreary afternoons?

Poetry sucks. Fuck poetry. I hate writing it; I only write poetry when the mood strikes me. Being told how and when to write it is becoming a bleeding thorn in my side. Despite my fast-fading enthusiasm for my mandatory poetry class, I will continue to post the pathetic outcomes of our weekly homework assignments with wavering hope that someone, somewhere will comment on it so that I may improve. Don't worry people, I won't get my hopes up about that one. I won't get my hopes up about anything anymore.

Another tidbit of irony: whenever my head hangs and my eyes gaze hopelessly at the ground, I catch a glimpse of the one glimmer of delight left in my current livelihood: new kickass boots.