Daffnee

I used to joke that I worked (if tutoring even counted as real work) in order to eat out -- now it's undeniable fact. I don't just have a psychological dependency on food, I have a dependency on people bringing me tea without the twenty-minute steep time and not having to dodge roommates in my hole of a kitchen to do my dishes. That, or my morning Sex and the City fixes are giving me horrendously warped expectations from life along with the ego-boost I get whenever I watch that show. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense (they are, after all, four women who look better and earn more than I ever will) but I guess I need that pink fluff in order to build up angst and perform my civic duty as an English major. Stupid Country Style coffee always turns me into a cranky mess! I did a tour-de-force of UBC's 24-hour joints tonight, and am feeling worse for it. My room's signature "jail cell" look can't even compare with the volatile combination of red-and-beige plastic, weak coffee, and lonely withered croissants, or the Pita Pit's loud rock and bleary counter dude. I can't believe lousy interior decorating and tuna could make me this depressive. Roll in some Samson Agonistes, and this cynic's drowning her sorrows in dreams of San Francisco.