It's odd to think about how we came to be. Just consider for a second that your name was infact Ken. The level of how gay your name is is certainly (and undoubtedly) atleast (if not more. And don't just say when because it's not going to get you out of this one ((especially the name part, Ken that is, not the latter which would therefore mean that you would get out of thinking altogether and that... well that would be horrific. If in fact you choose to not think the slightest thought and you were to succeed, you may be in trouble as your oxygen decreases and your heart breaks (((and if not caused by the love of your life ending it with you then it's damn ironic))) and you slowly enter a stage where you crawl into a straight circle and die)). But that's actually impossible ((((the not thinking a single thought part, not the die part)))) because, well have you ever tried not to think? You think about not thinking and that means your thinking and it's pretty much a basic law to understand so don't look at me like an idiot.)
OK so as I was saying, the level of how gay your name is is directly proportional to the amount your parents had to drink at the time of naming you. And please, if your name happens to be Ken, do not take the law of physics into your own hands, but rather ignore the last paragraph and this one and maybe, just possibly the next one too in case it contains the dreaded K-word again. And yes, your name has officially become a swear word Ken. I defy you Ken, I defy you for bringing these stupid names into my existence and to make matters worse and take the flint even further into the mallet I want to just let you know that the entire time Mrs Dickson was strutting toward me these thoughts were crossing my mind (well, more like looping because I wasn't really paying much attention to anything else. But I guess it would be more accurate to say they were thumping through my mind but that's just due to my headache and has nothing to do with this story really so I think I will cut it there in case I start going on about some other story that happened way back when...
Which reminds me: back to the story (bracket).
you see, when you have Mrs Dickson as your register teacher you find these thoughts consume and envelop your mind, and unfortunately they seem about 78 percent more interesting than learning about the arts. Whether it's the arts themselves or Mrs Dickson that's so boring is up to the viewer because at this stage you have a bit of background on her, and I'm sure you know more or less what Arts and Culture is about. Those words don't deserve capitals, so: arts and culture, there we go.
Onto another mid-topic while we are talking about cheese and the effects of wrapping a sample. It's actually my duty (or duties thereof)to announce that I might in fact trip next Wednesday. The reason I'm saying this is due to a recurring nightmare/de javu. But what puzzles me even more than the Hendrix of the wrapped cheese and it's host is that it hasn't happened yet. How can I have De javu of a future item which has in fact happened before (hence the french de javu). you may not get what I'm saying, OK look, in simple terms: I have tripped before in the future of my past in which I foresaw that I would have pre-tripped before I knew that it was indeed not in the past but rather (or possibly both, your are the judge it's up to you again I'm afraid) in the future of my presence to which I will re-live what I have not lived before. Quite a major contradiction but it makes sense, especially that bit regarding the cheese. So, quote of the day (and it's just a warning) there is a 1 in 500 million chance of getting shoved off a cliff by a herd of sheep and that's no lie, watch your back. These sheep are their own generation
