Snowbound and Irate

For the last week, I've only come out of my room for classes and rehearsal. Which admittedly is most of my free time around studying anyway, so who knows if anyone's noticed. I'm looking forward to Sunday's final curtain call, because it means I can come back. If there's a cast party planned, I think I'm skipping. If you think I'm showing up at the dance tonight, you're badly hallucinating.

There is no option I appreciate more right now. Either the world is as Hamlet says, and I'm simply haunted in one form of the term or the other? Or it's not paranoia when they really are out to get you, in which case I can't for the LIFE of me think of why. Either way, it makes the bottom fall out of my stomach.

Sometimes, the sinking feeling is realizing that your facade is fooling even the people you care most about, who you thought knew better.

The rest of the time, it's getting incontrovertible proof that you cared more, and you aren't even worth telling that they're not coming back. Because nothing says "I cared about you" like letting you read that you're taking a quick vacation to Italy before your house arrest elsewhere in Europe as an off-hand comment in someone else's journal.

I'd swear off women, but Dot's right. That I couldn't manage. Instead, I'm swearing off the whole god-damn human race. I think I'll take up alcoholism for Winter Break. I have to do something with my time.

Oh, and George? Lesson learned. I just didn't realize your cock was so small you had to overcompensate to that degree. But as they say: knowing is half the battle.