Sneakiness.

When someone you don't like but you're polite to in an effort to not be a jerk tells you that he doesn't like you in such a manner that it suggest he feels this should be a painful shock to you... well, that's just hilarious.

Perhaps I'm overcomplicating things. Perhaps my friends aren't racist, just whaddayacall... self-centered to a degree bordering on idiocy. But you know what? Fuck them. I'm back in my apartment, rocking two computers at once, enjoying the prodigious amount of food that Nana sent me home with, and, yes, being neurotic vis-a-vis worrying about the mental goings-on of a certain someone who I'm not going to mention by name because I'm... well, neurotic about such things. ALSO, if I keep things vague enough, everyone who thinks I'm talking about them will play their hands and reveal their dirty little secrets about why they think I'm talking about them. It's a time-honored strategy, long-ago perfected by fifteen-year-old girls with livejournal accounts.

On that subject, I hope YOU-KNOW-WHO apologizes for YOU-KNOW-WHAT soon. Current mood equals: subterfuge-tastic.