After considering number1gq's position for a while, I think I've changed my mind. I think I agree with you after all.

I mean, really. Who wants to read about other people complaining about their mundane, everyday problems? It really is dull as hell.

Take, for example, one of the worst writers of all time, James Joyce.

I've read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man cover to cover, and I gatta say, I'm not impressed. All he ever does is complain! Like, a solid third of the book is dedicated to him just agonizing and bitching and moaning over his sins. Just be proactive and go to confession, for Christ's sake! Him wallowing in his guilt just does not make for interesting literature. Since nobody else in the world has ever experienced the emotional turmoil of adolescence, to be honest, nobody else is really interested. Nobody can relate to his problems, so he should really find something else to write about.

Moving on.

Friday night was Marching Illini Formal!






It really wasn't that much fun.





But check out that makeup! Jessi taught me everything I know.





Ethan came down, but we left as soon as awards were over. Neither of us really knew that many people there, so it was sort of awkward.



We cut out early and went to the Taco Bell across the street so that we would have someplace warm to be until he had to go back to Oswego. Some dude who I'm pretty sure was high offered to take this picture of us in front of a picture of a crocodile.

Whee!

posted at 5:50 PM by Alison

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