history's importance is questionable

Who wants to write about stuff that's profound? Like life and death? Or black and white? Who wants to write about good and evil and happy or sad and friends and enemies? Who wants to write literature?
I want to write about midterms and the numbing white blank that fills your brain as soon as you go to review logarithms. I want to write about procrastination, which is not a bad habit but actually a feeling similar to having a two ton anvil dropped on your back. I want to write about stress, which is what happens when you don't have time to clean your room and you begin to cry when you stub your toe on a shoebox buried underneath a pile of clothes.
Life isn't profound. It's not black and white. It's not just good and evil or happy or sad or friends or enemies. It's more similar to stubbed toes and logarithms and anvils and shoeboxes. Life is weird.

Yesterday Sarah arrived at the store only to discover she had eaten her own shoe.

i just ate a whole box of wheat thins

Why is it necessary for a box of Wheat Thins to have a little warning label on the side that says "CONTAINS: WHEAT"? I mean, really? REALLY?

Singing amen, I, I'm alive
I'm alive
Singing amen, I, I'm alive

~Nickelback

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lif
e
is v
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sho
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t
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