The art of losing isn't hard to master/Though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I'm a dork. And here's why.
I put up my heinous bruise picture as my Facebook photo. Apparently it's gotten several people all worked up; I think it's funny. Hence, dorkiness.
I've got hold of a copy of 'Torn' by Natalie Imbruglia. Yeah, from the nineties. I keep that and 'Spare Me the Details' by Offspring on repeat on my media player. Again, dorkiness.
I watched Emmitt Smith dance the Cha-cha live on national television on Tuesday; it was so much fun. He can actually dance, I got a huge kick out of it. The song--'Son of a Preacher Man'--didn't hurt. It was followed by Mario Lopez (better known as Slater from Saved by the Bell) also dancing the Cha-cha, but to 'Walkin' on the Sun.' He was even better than Smith; the whole thing thoroughly amused me.
Oh, and 'Walkin' on the Sun' is the third song on my playlist. >.<
I played World of Warcraft for the first time in forever last night, it was great. I got my hat (finally) and a whole bunch of other stuff, it made me very happy. I still need to go through that particular instance (Scholomance) at least twice more to finish a quest chain I'm currently following, but it's one I like, so it won't be much of a problem.
Peter Dull won the Imaginative Writing 'Worst Poem' contest; his entry is hysterical. I'm planning on getting a typed copy of it. It's one terrible analogy and metaphor after another.

On a non-dork note, I was told tonight that Aaron is thinking about coming up here in a couple of weeks. Keep in mind, the information is unreliable, but still. I didn't want to know. It's hard enough thinking about him; knowing that he might be coming (even though the key word at the moment is might) makes things eight million times worse. The whole thing is not cool.

On another not-dork note, the secretary through whom I am supposed to schedule a counseling appointment has been gone for the past week, and her sub (a student) is not permitted (by policy) to schedule appointments. So I still haven't gone to see anybody, and at the rate this is going (and it's swiftly snowballing to a ridiculous degree) I won't be able to. You'll most likely tell me, hey, just email the counselor in question to schedule, but I intend to switch--the last one was never at work and never emailed in advance to say she wasn't going to be there, and I got sick of showing up week after week for nothing--and for that I need to go through the secretary, for some stupid reason. So it's irritating.

And I'm not insanely dizzy anymore. I'm not great, I still see spots and the world is usually spinning, but it's not as spotty or as spinny (is that a word? I'm making it a word, at least for now) as it was earlier this week.

Apparently freshmen are already getting warned to stay away from me; I realise I'm not the greatest person in the world, but telling people horror stories--especially when I didn't do anything, intentionally or otherwise, to the teller in question--seems to be hitting below the belt. I know who it is, too, which in a way makes it worse, but at the same time, it makes it a bit easier to deal with--I can avoid them now, and do my best to not befoul their delicate sensibilities with my corrupting presence. Okay, so I'm bitter. But I'm trying to get better--at least about how I react to it. I'm going to do my best to not pick any fights this year, and to not try to get the other person to pick fights, either. A new year's resolution of sorts. Turning over a new leaf. Whatever you want to call it. Efforts thus far have been successful, but it's only three weeks into the year, there's still plenty of time for me to start something.

Speaking of efforts, I want to submit to Parnassus again this year, especially since not only has the contest been reinstated, but--and ths is the part I actually care about--submissions will be judged by outsiders and awarded prizes by such. Judith Kitchen, Sven Birkerts, and Paul Willis are the judges, and as they are all rather well-respected authors/poets/whatever/etc/amen, I would absolutely love to have them read something I wrote, even if I came in dead last.

But I'm tired and ought to go to bed, I've got homework to do tomorrow, lots of it; none of which I'm feeling exuberant about. Goodnight.