doom, doom.

Having just gone through a pile of my essays from high school, I have determined to my dismay that I was a much better writer in high school than I am today. Look at this:

William Gladstone had the mixed blessing of being Prime Minister of England in 1868. He was an idealistic, fair minded man who had the political acumen necessary to promote his ideals and push them through Parliament and the House of Commons; however, the ship of his administration (like so many others during the nineteenth century) was doomed to dash itself to pieces against the historically problematic Irish rocks.

Just look at that lovely metaphor, worked in so very beautifully. I don't write like that any more. I don't even know where I'd begin. I'd hate to think that I peaked at 17.

Oh well. I saw Shrek 2 with the siblings today; it's a fun romp, but it's not quite as good as the first. (Few movies are.) Taken in sum, it's yet another confirmation that the romance isn't as exciting after you've won your mate. You have the girl, congratulations! ...and now you have to please the in-laws, fight off other suitors, and (most importantly) figure out to make her happy. Not to say that the fight isn't ultimately rewarding, but the struggle just isn't as interesting. After the first bright spark, it's all downhill.

Such a silly somber mood I'm in. I think it's definitely time to read my obituary (kindly provided by the Random Obituary Generator of Doom):

Obituary

We regret to announce the untimely expiration of Kittenscribble, who on the 7th of February of this year was carefully stabbed by a ferocious werewolf. This unfortunate incident occurred in a slightly distressed Buick Skylark at Camp Fusketotulee. The deceased was reported to have shouted "Stand back! I'm a professional!" just before expiring. Kittenscribble is survived by several houseplants. Funeral services will be held the 2nd of next month.

(meme from astolat)