"No more monkeys jumpin' on the bed."

I wrote that down somewhere in my creative writing notebook a while back and found it a few days ago. Frankly, I was a little wierded out. Not so much that the past-me would think of something like that, but that she would see it as important enough to write down. Because I don't view of myself as a single entity, but rather a myriad of short-lived ones scattered throughout the past. And, of course, the future. Sometimes the past-me will do bad things, like make promises that she knows I won't want to keep. Or build up grudges that I eventually have to get over. But sometimes she does very very good things, like leaving a money in random places and pockets. She's weird like that.

Last night I died. Twice! In my dreams. It is a rare occasion when I die in a dream, but to do it twice... damn. First, Uma Thurman stabbed me through the head with one of those samurai swords (I know they probably have a real name, but if you really are anal enough to be bothered by the fact that I didn't use it, you can leave a comment, Anal McAnalson.). But not through the side of the head... oh no. Straight through the top. And the strange thing was that instead of the sword going straight in (complete with highly pressurize blood-squirtage, in the true Tarantino fashion) she really struggled to get that sucker in. And then after Uma had killed us all (there were others in the room), she decorated our bodies with ketchup and mustard. Ok, maybe that was the strange thing.

And then I got shot in the head.

Where the hell did the love go this semester? It seems like everyone is always speaking ill of someone behind their back, or to their face, or in one of those sky messages that planes spell out. I've talked to Phillip and Meagan about this, but neither of them knows what I'm talking about. But surely someone must have noticed that suddenly everyone is very sick of one another. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!