Farathoom

Whenever I try to say, or even think, bloody f-ing hell, it comes out as farathoom. I think it's from Biting the Sun by Tanith Lee. It's getting ridiculous.

I found Michael in the yearbook, but is name is Miad Rou... something. It wasn't my yearbook. So... what? Does he go by Michael, or did my talking to boys deafness bungle it, so I misheard? Does he not correct me because he thinks I don't matter?! Not only that, but that sounds middle eastern. So the countries aren't narrowed down either?!

I sort of have to track him down in order to talk to him. Tomorrow is my last day. Should I go to his art class, or will I look like a nutty stalker?

Oh... Marilyn Manson cures all emotional ills. I think I should just listen to it for awhile and see if this badness goes away. I feel like I need some sage adult advice. Some wise relative or blog hopper needs to share an amusing anecdote from their rich life experience that will reassure me, and possibly imply that I will get together it Michael/Miad after all.

Question of the day: Am I actually a nutty stalker?