Frying the Coop, Act One

It’s been nearly a month’s time since I left the love-in of financial well-being and food-full refrigerators that was living with my parents, and as much as that sounds like the beginning of a series of shrill whines and drudging complaints about life with the responsibility monsters of rent and feeding one’s self looming in the closet by the foot of your twin bed from IKEA, it isn’t.  After a short memoir of the brief time that was moving out for me (and my compatriot,) I will expect to have left you with a rather good understanding of how swift and fine and nice and, well, wholesome this entire experience has been for the two of us.

Despots of Duress

So, last year, in my Medievil Europe course, which I dropped like a tendancy that is not socially acceptable due to commonly accepted taboos, I had this ostentatious, frumpy old fucker who was so inept as a teacher, I actually slid onto the floor during one lecture and napped. For a time, I stopped going to that class, until one day a friend from the same course came into the archaeology class we also shared and asked if I was still enrolled in Medievil History. I paused and said, “let’s say yes.” He said, “Oh, okay. Well I was just wondering because the teacher had a stroke.” I remember letting the phrase, “…stroke of luck…” slip.

Teach me to be Taut

Well, if school isn’t a good reason to defib a dormant blog back to life, I don’t know what is. Alas, summer has been a tiresome time of jobs in duplicate—except one is superior plus to the other—and nothingness spanning on like the barren wastes of Tatooine. Yes, friends, that JUST happened. That just happened like Death Star.

Sticky Fingers

It is a perspective commonly held by my friends that I do not possess the capacity to worry, upheld by my constant ability to eat things that have touched the bare hands of others and my passive disregard of cars and polyunsaturated trans-fats.