As he sat thumpin' his thumbs in his rusty car in the chill spring night, his music played so loudly through augmented speakers, causing every loose piece of his vehicle to vibrate with the beat. He is truly the modern-day one-man band.

I got a great email entitled "HOLY SHIT YOUR ART ROCKS," which told me to "keep kicking ass."

Perhaps RO has fried my brain. I can only seem to think in sentences just so long ... I suppose it is for the best that this long weekend must come to an end. Resuming normal life will stop me from playing RO every damn waking minute.

Right now, I feel like running around, pawing at my temples, and throwing myself at walls, all the while gurgling and snarling random phrases of gibberish. I want to randomly assault small pop cans and stomp on something excellently squishy. I'm anxious about something, something that hasn't been dealt with.

Potential Candidates:
Italian. I'm always stressed about Italian. Why am I so scared now?
Logic. I can't remember how to do truth tables for these problems. Who knew that a simple () could make it so scary?
Ceramics. Will I get it all done in time? I don't even remember what the deadline is.
Museum. I've been assigned a research project on a dude I don't know and who I don't give a damn about.
My Room. Such a forking mess. Must clean.
Myself. Am I really what I think I am? What constitutes a valuable goal? What does it matter? Do I matter? In what scope will my life and actions play out?

Avevo, avevi, aveva. Avevamo, avevate, avevano. I can form you and recognize you, but I cannot use you. I can't keep your meaning on my mind. Can't fit you.