P.S.

I have just learned that the boyz of New Edition were born and raised just footsteps away from where I am living now.

I've probably stepped on the same asphalt as the big B.B. himself.

Swooooooooon!

Shit is weird

Pig valves and DUI's....
Fried shrimp and limp potatoes....


It was a weird week.
Part of me was psyched to leave.
The rest felt like I should stay.


But my psyched-ness was quickly dashed, when I walked into my stinky dark apartment alone, to a sink full of dishes.

Waste of life. Thanks for all your hard fucking work.

In the morning I was to discover that all of my soy milk had been drinken...dranken...drunk..?
Oh, I'm sorry, not all of it. You were so kind as to leave approximately half a teaspoon full.

Mmm, froot loops in water. Deeeelish.

These next few weeks aren't looking too good.
I've got two weeks of listening to fat people go on power trips.

Fat, like seriously morbidly obese.
These people are fucking monsters.
Smallest one is probably 350 pounds.

And I have to take orders from all you stupid Biggie Smalls wannabes.
Countdown to graduation has begun, and school hasn't even started yet.

May. In May I will be a college graduate.
And five May's from now I will be a doctor.


Crazy.

Shit is weird.

Where are you?
You should be finished with your run by now.

Don't make me sleep in this place alone again tonight.
It smells, but I bought more soy milk.

That way we can have breakfast in the stink.
And you and I can complain about it together.

These days

I've not been doing much.

I have been spending much time sitting at the proctor station staring blankly into space.

But at least I'm getting paid for said staring.

I am also getting paid to play egregious amounts of Sudoku.
And I have begun to rock at it.

A friendly reminder

When you're a jet you're a jet all the way.


And when you're an RA, your life sucks.

Basically.



Note to self: Next time you have 48 straight duty hours, stock up on alcohol, narcotics, or both.

Packaging

I am an excellent target for all you market-eers out there.

I love packaging.
Cool packaging.


Cool packaging will make me buy just about anything.

I don't care what the product is. It could be an electric vagina-maiming device, and I would buy it if the packaging was cool enough.
Would I maim my vagina?
Probably not.
But I would keep it just for the box.

And really, I've decided...that is sad.
Pitifully sad, in fact.

For example: I have two small boxes sitting in my room which are filled with I don't know what. One I think is a bar of soap, and the other I think has a tiny travel diary or something ridiculous like that. I've never opened either of them. I never intend to open them.
There they sit, unopened and completely useless.
They're not even good decorations because they're fucking cardboard boxes.

I don't know...they're still cool.













Fuck you.
Don't judge me.

Boondoggled

I haven't the faintest what the word means.

But it seemed appropriate for the moment.
Went down to the Vineyard today with the pharmacy folks.

Headin on down in the Peter Pan bus we watched "She's the Man" and all the pharmacy chicks fuckin loved it.
What?

Say again -
What?

Anyhow, got to spend some time on the sandy beaches. Water was warm, and no man-o-wars in sight (or, according to the newscasters, "men of war.") A tiny little crab pinched me though. Tiniest crab I ever seen.

Still hurt. Fucker.

All in all, I would chalk it up as a damn decent trip, seeing as I got to partake in my favorite treat of all: ice cream -- food of gods, angels, and mortals among us.

Did you know?
Much of the island of Martha's Vineyard is dry.
I, myself, was unaware of this fact.

Oh, and by dry I mean they don't serve alcohol. Otherwise, they're quite wet. Being an island and all.

Just in case those of you who are not reading this were at all confused.













ANYWAY.

The only downside to the trip (other than She's the Man, but I can forgive that) is the downside to all beach trips: sand under the titties.
I had a piece of kelp in there too.

Shower food.

Dear Post Office

Give me my fucking mail.

Assholes.

Give me my checks.
Give me my packages.
Give me my circulars.
Give me my credit card offers.


Assholes. Assholes. Assholes.


For more than two weeks, I have not received a piece of mail. My roommate, with whom I share the mailbox, has certainly been receiving hers.
I contacted the USPS. They launched an "investigation."
And would you like to know what the "investigator" had to say?

"Well, I talked to your carrier, and he said that when he has mail for you he delivers it and when he doesn't he doesn't."

Well, that's great, Dennis Franz. Whoop-dee-doo and hoo-fuckin-ray, my mail carrier is doing his job.
Put your name on your mailbox, he says.
It's there.
And that aside, even if it weren't...my roommate is still getting her mail.

So, you motherfuckers, answer me this.
If my name is on the mailbox, as it should be... And my mailcarrier is doing his job, as he should be... And if fucking FedEx found me without any problem...WHERE IS MY FUCKING MAIL YOU BASTARDS?!

ANSWER YOUR PHONE!
ANSWER IT!
I HATE YOU!


Give me my mail!

Wow

No one more deserving than me?


I almost skinned my knee with joy.