I actually sat in front of the computer with the intent of writing something some what personal and profound, especially since I haven't said anything particularly profound here in like, ever, but all I really want to do is whine about how sick I am. And I am. Sick. At the moment I can only breathe through one nostril. A while ago in class I thought the the other nostril was ready for air and I took a premature deep breath - it ended up sounding like I was sniffing the snot back into my nose. The girl sitting next to me scooted her seat away.

I need sleep.

Have you ever had one of those mornings when you roll out of bed late and the ability to wear sweatpants suddenly seems like the bestest privilege in the world, but at approximately 1 pm you step out of class, see the sun at its brightest and everyone still in their summer best and then you sit in your next class analyzing outfits with thoughts like, 'oh, my blazer (at home) fits better than yours' or 'my new boots (at home) would kick the crap out of your fugly wannabe Ugs' ...and, and, and you just feel like such an ugly slovenly creature that you decide to take up residence at the library until your next class?

I know you have.

I was in class today waiting for my psych professor to start when, out of nowhere, I remembered how much I loved writing the date on the chalkboard before seventh grade French class. I loved it so much that I had to limit myself to writing it every other day in order to keep people from thinking I was strange. My favorite part was the year, and the fact that in spoken French it was broken down into 'one thousand, nine hundred ninety four'. Mille neuf cents quatre-vingt-quatorze. I dare anyone who read that properly to tell me that doesn't sound magnificent. It's almost as fascinating as listening to my co-worker translate "Good Times, Bad Times" into sing-song German everytime I asked him to last week, which incidentally, were a lot of times (Fast! Find someone who speaks German and have him or her say this. Trust me, it's all good times).

In other news, today was one of those fabulously hot end-of-summer days when people walked around campus wearing colorful flip-flops and oversized sunglasses, and everyone seemed to have left their sweat pants and pajama bottoms at home. I always enjoy these first few weeks before school gets around to breaking our spirits.

During one of my breaks I walked up to Bloor Street hoping to see a celebrity (and by 'a celebrity' I suppose I could mean Orlando Bloom in the midst of some sort of breakdown where he realizes he needs to be Legolas all the time) before the Toronto International Film Festival kicked up again tonight, but the closest I got to seeing anything remotely famous was a bunch of paparazzi types hurrying to set up their cameras across from the Intercontinental Toronto. One of the photographers seemed to have dragged his chubby teenage son out for a day of training, and was complaining to the concierge/door-opener guy about his chubby teenage son's ineptness at attaching a flash to the camera while his chubby teenage son still stood there struggling. I would have stayed for more if I thought someone Important was actually coming out, but I refused to believe that anyone Important (much less the ethereal Legolas) would stay at a hotel sandwiched between a three floor McDonalds and a Pizza Hut, much less allow himself to be photographed coming out of said hotel. I figure at best I missed meeting a washed up Sabrina the Teenage Witch type.

Note the lack of sadness.

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