Today, I went sledding for the first time in many a year. It was exhilarating to fly screaming through the stinging snow. Even more thrilling was Kate and I piled onto one sled attempting to knock over Jeff and Stasi, who were sledless spoilsports. :P I heartily enjoyed my time and hot chocolate afterwards.
Lavishly dreaming of classy drinks, classy ties, and warm solo vocals, I've been listening to Frank Sinatra. The band is a complement to a traditionally pleasant voice, and the lyrics pass through meaningful musing to sappy serenade.
I remember being cynical. Sophomore year, Tboc recommended The March of Follies, or some similarly titled novel on the basis that I was enough of a cynic to appreciate it. Still, there was a time of idealism, and I have since returned to my scathing roots. It is not meant to say that I am unenthusiastic and have stopped dreaming, but I'm more realistic. I don't want to be another white girl that didn't get out of suburbia. However, my future seems so empty with possibility that I may fill it with comfortable familiarity. It's hard to find a compromise for myself. It's much less painful to be cynical and faithless.
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