Not so bad, as far as Tuesdays go.

Today I had to give an oral presentation on Rockstar Energy Drink and its marketing strategies. We gave out samples of Rockstar to everyone in the class, then proceeded to tell them why they shouldn't buy Rockstar because in doing so they're supporting Michael Savage, host of the Savage Nation radio show. Some of his worse moments include:

"Not all Muslims are terrorists, but all terrorists happen to be Muslims."
"I'll tell you what autism is. In 99% of the cases, it's a brat who hasn't been told to cut the act out."
And my personal favorite, directly to a gay man who called in with an airline horror story at Savage's request: "Oh, you're one of the sodomites. You should only get AIDS and die, you pig."

After we'd finished, there were a few shots of Rockstar left (we gave it out in ketchup cups XD), and I figured that since I now knew everything about the product except how it tasted, it was about time I tried some. That little shot was enough to make me choke. And THIS is the most popular seller in Go-Co's bookstore?!

After class, Sam said to me, "I'll never forget the look on your face after you took your first sip of Rockstar...."

Glad to have been such good entertainment.

Oh yeah, and this morning I woke up from a dream in which I drank our glowing Mountain Dew concoction, and when I looked at my stomach, my innards were glowing. And then they were going to fall out, so I was like, "Guys, we gotta go to the hospital. Someone's gotta come with me. I'll drive, but someone's gotta come with me."

----------------------------------------------

Stupid poet rant:

Why can’t people understand that WRITING POEMS does not make you a POET? These days there are a million and one emo kids bleeding all over their notebook pages and calling it poetry. And I suppose it's a sort of verse, yes; but if all you ever do is bleed, kid, you’re not a poet.

A poet ought to paint her words with a feather or trace them on the surface of the sea. The process is fragile, as subject to change as clear skies in Boston – but you carve your words in granite with a chisel, never to be rescinded. Every one of them is there on purpose. You will not hear of changing them: heresy! You don't write for yourself. But you don't care if your words are any good, so you don’t write for anyone else, either.

How can you call yourself a writer when all you do is bleed?

Stupid boy rant (abridged):

I don't go out on a limb for just anybody. I would offer you my heart, but worse than breaking it, you'd just ignore that it was even there.