life is like a box of boring

Two weeks ago, I made a three-pronged promise to 1) live a more scandalous life, 2) compose well-written recaps of all questionable behavior on this here blog, and 3) tell outright lies to compensate for my generally tame (see: uninteresting) existence. It seems I have failed to fulfill any of my obligations in regard to the promise made, opting instead to 1) kiss no one (in spite of all inhibition-eliminating whiskey consumed), 2) write mostly about being inexplicably sad and/or inebriated, and 3) post old poems to fill the empty space. Not really what I had in mind.

I wish I could say I have plans to get after it (and by it, I mostly mean it), as that would provide me with the scandal about which I so enjoy writing and about which—I can only assume—most of you enjoy reading, but I don’t. The quietude—with its oatmeal-eating holidays and its many, many books and its (possibly too much) time spent alone—is just what I need right now. And, unfortunately, this mostly solitary lifestyle sort of excludes the lip-locking and the doing it and the behaving badly in general.

But have no fear, dear readers. I will prey on the depravity of my friends to cultivate content for my posts (not really, guys, don’t worry). And, when that fails, I will channel the ghosts of scandals past and exploit the folly of my former self for the sake of a decent story. College me better watch her back.

Plus, me without the kissing is like T. Cruise without the crazy. Temporary, at best.