Modern Loner

It's a beautiful Saturday night, and what am I doing? A great deal of nonsense, actually, but that is beside the point, which is that instead of partying or drinking or having myself a merry old time with any of my blessed compatriots, I'm sitting at home, trying to sing along to classic rock songs, reading tumblr, and making scones. Ah, they're done now. Very beautiful they are! I didn't adhere to the recipe at all, hopefully that won't result in any culinary disappointment. Ok, I've made tea, and now I'm sitting here with some a plate of scones a mug of tea, and half an orange I found on the cutting board. I feel very cozy. The only problem is that I'm somewhat cold. But dear me, we can't have everything, can we? I don't want to turn on the heat, no I don't. I really should be doing homework. That's why I stayed home from the concert today; I have about six assignments for calc that I need to do before Wednesday.  But would it be so bad to finish my scones here before I go off to math land? No, twould not. I'm just readying myself for the experience, that's all.
Oh, actually. While I'm here, I might as well start on my Lit assignment. I have to write a Valentine's Day sonnet about love, you see. That's heinous! I don't like love at all! It ranks high on my list of things that annoy me (which is quite extensive, but still). I feel like this is tyranny. Still, I suppose I can give it a shot. Let's try here:
My darling, you are not much for the eyes,
No dashing cavalier.
Your face could represent fourth prize
You look like Boromir.
Although you act as if you thought
As much as Montesquieu
Intelligence befits you not
And foolery's your due.
Though money makes my heart rejoice
To you it's an offense
You've never made a fiscal choice
That showed a bit of sense.
Yet though an ugly fool you be
More dear than gold you are to me!
Oh dear. I am no John Donne, clearly. Should I just bite the bullet and write something in free verse? It would offend my mortal soul, but at least it might be interpreted as being artistic. Or something. I don't know. Maybe I should just change the pronouns in James's "poem" for me and hand that in. I would be laughed out of existence, but at least the shame of composition wouldn't be mine to bear. Or maybe I could hand in Francisco's song. It's quite bad, though. And quite obviously written for me. Oh, wait! Maybe I could write a poem for myself! It would be called "Modern Narcissus" and wouldn't be a rip off of Arthur Symons at all. Sounds like a plan. Ok, we good.
I suppose I really should get some math done, though, so I shall leave off babbling on here and go integrate. Whee! Would that everyone had a life like mine.