It's the final night of Americal Idol... scratch that, it's the final episode that really matters. Everything else is Fox's final attempts at milking this season's contestants. Strangely enough, I'm not that excited.

Tch. I told pop that sis needed some serious psychiatric help back... oh... several years ago. Naturally he didn't heed my advice. And now the stress that we're both feeling has made her almost break-down. Almost.

Apparently the egg whites for the chocolate mousse last night wasn't beaten enough, since only an inch of it remained when I arrived home. Everything else was... liquid. This time I beat the egg whites with the mixer, and it should retain some consistancy greater than iced tea.

I still have that chapter to read for Physics, but I'm not stressing that one... too much.

Am. Lit. this year seems like it's going to be quite an interesting class. Already I'm enjoying this homework assignment (rewrite Old Man and the Sea from another character's perspective) (only 10 to 15 sentences long? ha!) since I'm sneeking in some Sandman fanfiction. Heh, go me.

Currently having a nearly uncontrollable urge to swerve my hips like someone from Showgirls or Striptease. Don't ask me why; even I don't... scratch that, it's Fiona Apple's "Slow Like Honey" that's doing this to me.

Yes, I made (another) playlist today.

People in my art class are already beginning to hate/envy me. Great, just what I need.

::swerve::

I must find this Douglas piano-major at school. He goes to my same piano teachers and recognized me from my horrendous piano recital last spring. Cringe.

"I am the man on the side, hoping you'd make up your mind. I am the one who will swallow his pride... Life as the man on the side."

My sketchbook feels unloved.