Friday, March 28, 2008

Rain down on me again

You look for the entry dated on March 27, but there was none, you were very suspicious. Could it be a deliberate attempt by an unknown person to remove it? If so then why? You push these nagging thoughts behind as you read the entry on March 28.

March 28

It was another wet day. the moment I left school, it poured.

The drama thing I went for was a King Lear thing, but I auditioned for Kent, I became Edgar. Now this is what I think.


"For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines

Lag of a Kent?

Why“foolish honesty”? Wherefore “Noble”?

When my dimensions are
as well compact,

My mind as generous, and my shape as
true

As honest madam's issue? "


[Shakespeare jumps from his grave, travel around the world to Singapore to throttle this author for defacing his play]

Ackk. But seriously, I'm cool with it. AT least I don't have to die on stage and lay still when my rear starts to itch.
[To create irony, His will made the author's rear itchy]

Well, we have to see the teacher on this Saturday to discuss rehearsals. Boy am I glad to be in an unsticky situation of overloaded timetables. After all, its good to be involved in stuff, but if you lose sight of the important stuff, it could really come up and bite you in your rear in your dying moments.
[The author does not notice the shadow of a really big dog with big teeth creeping up behind him. You lose the picture but the sound of 'Ouch, stop biting me ass you mastiff!' is heard]

Today, our literature lecturer showed the class two poems, one of which that inspired me to deface the most was

How Do I Love Thee
Elizabeth Barrett Browning

'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. '

This was I , in jest have said.

'How do I mock thee? Let me count the ways. this is one, the next is...'
'How do I laugh at thee? Let me count the ways. There is only one way. Ha ha ha'
'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. Oops, I lost me accounts book'
'How do I fu-'

Okay, that's a little to much of a joke.
[skeletal fingers clutch over the author's neck. The author fears for his life]

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