"Come on now, come on now child, you're here just awhile..."

New icon, from the cover of one of my favorite CDs of all time: Hefner, The Fidelity Wars. I think it's sufficiently "Heffie" on a couple levels, don't you?

Today was the last day of classes. Ever. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet, or maybe I just don't feel like I can relax until the drama thesis is finished and the goddamn French final is out of the way (I could probably sit down and do the math to reassure myself that the chances of me failing are actually pretty slim, but I'm too scared to do even that). Either way, things don't feel over yet. But more or less they really are, and that's very surreal. No more college ever. It's over.

My God. I felt like I wasted so much time, except that for the most part college wouldn't offer me all the opportunities it does today. Man. On one hand, I wish I could do it over again. On the other, there's been so much baggage this year that I need to leave, to seperate myself and figure out where I stand in this crazy world.

I have a couple weeks here to spend as much time as possible with these people. These people I may never see again. And it goes without saying that spending more time with some matter more than others. But at this point, we're near the end, nothing else matters. No more time to waste. No more point in wasting time. You're here, and I'm here. One last time. Once more unto the breach. Hell, let's make it thrice. Lord knows if we'll ever keep in touch beyond IM and LJ. Lord knows how people can drift apart.

I have four years of wasted living to cram into two more weeks, and there's no one else I'd rather do it with than you.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MY HIPPIE!

Lest I forget, today is my Hippie's 20th birthday! I was this morning awakened by my Hippie's mother, the Queen of Sunshine and Lolipops, who asked me how I was doing and if I could please tell Izzy to call his mother because she wants to take him out for lunch on his birthday. Awww!

And I don't even have anything to get him! I'm such a bad Hippie owner. After all, I really should give him something, a patchoulli-scented chew toy maybe? Or maybe it should smell like partially digested Irish car bombs, so he can have something to remember me by.

20 year old. How old is that in Hippie years? If I were more awake/refreshed/coherent, I could probably come up with an answer, but alas, alack. Anyway, WACers, if you see Isaac, be sure to wish him a Hippie... I mean Happy Birthday!

Oh, and this icon goes out to a certain special lady. Because you do make kitty scared, you know.