But there's no fight in him.

I took a creative writing course six years ago, during my third year in university. I came across one of my former classmates last week, and we were reminiscing, and so as a result, this morning I looked through the anthology of poetry our class produced that year. What I noticed is that the more self-referential amongst us (and there were quite a few, this was a creative writing class after all), in our poetry frequently advertised our ages, which were twenty or twenty-one years old at that time. It was a bit fascinating to notice; I remember doing that, and it meant something then, but I can't remember what now. I can't imagine writing "I am twenty-seven" and expecting it to mean anything, and I don't know if that's because twenty-seven actually means nothing, or if I'm just less obsessed with the wonder of my own existence.

In Saturday night news, we got to hang out with Erin Smith (who has a new blog), and eat Greek food in her 'hood. It was fabulous, but moreso because after we went home and did Sing Along With Annie from her Annie DVD. Her cat got upset during "Tomorrow" because it hates high pitched noises. It got increasingly agitated during "Hard Knock Life", and sat beside me on the arm of the sofa, meowing. The cat lost the plot during "Well, how about Champion?" and while we were singing "Rover, why not think it over?", the cat lifted up its paw, and punched me in the head. I didn't let the assault get in between me and my music. Rover was a perfect name for that dumb looking dog.