Butcher's party at the great meat ball. No, that's not part of my Twitter sonnet, it was the answer to a riddle in my math class where each of the letters corresponding to solutions to problems spelled the answer to the riddle, "What is the butcher's big party called?"
Did I mention I hate math?
I finished a script to a new comic last night. It was a slightly frustrating feeling because I was happy with it. The contrast was distinctly set up--when I work on a comic, I feel like I'm doing something. When I'm doing school work, however useful I might tell myself it is to an eventual career, it always either feels like leisure or killing time.
I read Alfred, Lord Tennyson last week, though we've still not discussed it in class as we seem to've gotten behind by two days. I liked what I read quite a lot. I already knew and loved "Lady of Shalott" and "Charge of the Light Brigade". "Locksley Hall" I found a bit misogynist but having a passion one can nonetheless sympathise with.
"Break, Break, Break," is good and the repetitiveness of "Mariana"'s four lines at the end of each stanza, "She only said, 'My life is dreary,/He cometh not,' she said;/She said, 'I am aweary. aweary,/I would that I were dead!'", has the feeling of implacable doom to it. Really nice.
Twitter Sonnet #488
To the life of fingers enters wrong toes.
Telegraphed fools reconstitute mixed up.
Pure energy strikes a permanent pose.
Or it scribbles a weird moon at sun up.
Wrinkled astroturf takes the sky's foul ball.
Nothing blends when gold slams the red fence post.
Indignant ghosts plead for the empty mall.
Uranium is an ungracious host.
Inflatable vinyl crunches CDs.
Spirals of spent spinach smoke lays the tomb.
Kunoichi rain is boiled chickpeas.
Steam assassins spin Twinkies on the loom.
Dominant carpets display fake flora.
Easter tribbles trickle bad angora.