I just realized that I started an entry at home and left it. It's still open and unless for some reason my computer restarts, I'll finish it when I get home. Weird....

At school, very tired, must correct, don't want to, must check in books, don't want to, need to sleep, want to. Should have called in sick this morning but didn't. D. almost convinced me to. I felt like crap. Still do. But, I can't call in sick. It's just something about me. I have so many sick days and I used some of them during the flooding. But I just have a hard time calling in and not working. I'm not indispensible, they will survive without me. I just can't. But I feel crappy. If I feel like this tommorrow, I may call in sick. But just may as tommorrow is pay day and I need my cheque.

I want a gold membership. Actually I want three. One for this account, one for waterhouse designs and one for my new gingdesigns which will have designs that I make but don't fit into waterhouse designs and that I don't want to use myself. So that's three gold accounts, 30$ american each. So around $133.45 canadian. At least according to an online currency calculator. So I may just get one for waterhouse now and then work up to getting the others. I've been planning this for a while, just haven't had the funds. I wrote Andrew asking if there were discounts if you bought more than one, but I never heard back. Hmmm....

I think I shall correct. I am so tired and feel like crap.

A poem:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead.
Put cr�pe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever:
I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

~ W.H. Auden

When I die, I want to be important enough to someone that they will read this for me.

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