The Obvious Garden: We all know the secret one is there

So I haven't been writing too much in here, because of "uninspiration," which goes into "uncreativity," which morphologically beautifully flows into "unillusioned."

Which, all right, I'll be the first to admit that I am a pretty illusioned person. I am currently sitting on all my dirty clothes from yesterday, and I have my old harddrive (which HAS TO BE SENT BACK TO DELL BY, OH, 5 WEEKS AGO...SHIT!) balanced on top of a pile of overdue library books and print outs of apartments I am supposed to look at for next year right next to my elbow. I've got to be a pretty illusioned, or deluded, personed to believe I can juggle all this too much longer without letting something metaphorically and literally falling off.

But I've made it through fair enough until now. It's just recently I've actually started wondering "I wonder how much I'd understand of Guzmán de Alfarache if I weren't sitting here thinking about what everyone's reaction would be in C-shop if I suddenly jumped on top of a table and started screaming my reading out loud to drone at the latest Sean Paul song that's on repeat on the radio stations nowadays. Or, better, if if I started dancing AND reciting SIMULTANEOUSLY! Or if I weren't sitting at the library imagining what the classes are like for the girls who are in pharmacy school at the next table down, and what they would have been like if they would have gone to school with my mom in Hungary. Would they have been friends? What if they...hmmm...

So really, the point of this post isn't much. A couple of weeks ago, when I was at a party and I was less (or more?) than myself than usual (which, by the way, is probably the only time I'm not imagining other things), someone told me the next day it was really "nice" to see me at the party and I shouldn't apologize for saying the thousands of inane things I did say, since that was the only time this person had not seen me (I quote) "stressed out, since whenever I see you, you always look so stressed out." I don't know what the person meant, since even Mary Kate commented recently on how unperturbed I seemed about all the work I had to do. Well, relatively speaking.

If I ever do look stressed out, it's probably because I'm imagining what life would be like if all my friends were dead. Or what life would be like if I were an FBI agent sent to Morocco to detain would-be illegal immigrants, and the subsequent moral dilemma I would then be thrown into.

Now that I elaborately said "I waste a lot of time," here are a mere 3 pictures from the weekend.