Dear Journal... Part I

Dear Journal,

Who the fuck is that moron singing on the radio...I don't feel like opening my eyes. Sounds like a rapper. Mother--
Oh, did I unload the dryer?
Yes.
Good.
So, I'm pretty sure my French substitute is a tweaker... I tried to solicit Ty to follow him into the bathroom to see if he shoots up right before class, because I don't think I've ever seen someone look quite so spaz-tastic while they're trying to teach passe compose and imparfait.
Seriously, this guy does the "triple blink". I haven't seen the "triple blink" since high school. And he slurs his words, and his accent is atrocious, he sounds like he's from New England...
Ty thinks he's just nervous, and refuses to follow him into the bathroom...he thinks it would make him a creeper.
I don't think it would make him a creeper.
I really want to know.
In fact, I think I'm willing to pay Ty for his services (that sounds wrong--I like it).
I don't even know this French substitute's name, and I don't really care. I wasn't there the first day he decided to fill in for the real professor, because I was at the hospital...but his name is completely irrelevant to what sort of drug he shoots up before class.
I'm betting it's coke.
He doesn't look like he could afford heroin.
Or maybe he can afford heroin, because it doesn't look like he can afford a semi-formidable wardrobe.
Sigh.
It's really freakin cold in here...
I want a blanket.
And a Norwegian prostitute.

Bisous.