nevernever
Maybe I should bake or something. What I really want to do is cook a mountain of eggplant in a variety of delicious ways, but I don't know. Our fridge is packed right now, it's dumb. I couldn't save any leftovers of anything. Hopefully people start buying less food, because I've hardly even been eating anything and I know it isn't mine.
Saturday I was just never really hungry, and I'm pretty sure most of my calories for the day were in the form of alcohol consumed between 8.30 p.m. and 7 a.m. the next day. Why did I do this? I cannot remember.
Anyway as a result there's a stain on my honor since apparently I'm prodding and picking fights with Russian Nick [never the unimpeachable Nick Chirico, to whom I owe a mix], a person so unfamiliar with ordinary human contact he believes the customary way for two Westerners to "catch up" after a year and a half involves the exchange of essays. A person who's had so few conversations between the 2006 spring semester and now he can quote me from that time verbatim-- unless, of course, you prefer the hardly more comforting theory that he's saved every email I ever sent him, maybe to refer back to when his inbox is empty.
Never mind that I can count on one hand the friends of mine who have not brought up the term "restraining order" in response to a description of him; that those people are friends in real life and that I can get a date with a person not also being medicated for mental instability; no, it's likely that I'm following around a dime-a-dozen obese nerd and part-time sociopath whose panic attacks in reaction to getting dumped are more like seizures and with all the social grace of a 1940s lobotomy patient. So we can all agree that my behavior has clearly been inappropriate? Good; I thought so; I am properly remorseful.
Saturday I was just never really hungry, and I'm pretty sure most of my calories for the day were in the form of alcohol consumed between 8.30 p.m. and 7 a.m. the next day. Why did I do this? I cannot remember.
Anyway as a result there's a stain on my honor since apparently I'm prodding and picking fights with Russian Nick [never the unimpeachable Nick Chirico, to whom I owe a mix], a person so unfamiliar with ordinary human contact he believes the customary way for two Westerners to "catch up" after a year and a half involves the exchange of essays. A person who's had so few conversations between the 2006 spring semester and now he can quote me from that time verbatim-- unless, of course, you prefer the hardly more comforting theory that he's saved every email I ever sent him, maybe to refer back to when his inbox is empty.
Never mind that I can count on one hand the friends of mine who have not brought up the term "restraining order" in response to a description of him; that those people are friends in real life and that I can get a date with a person not also being medicated for mental instability; no, it's likely that I'm following around a dime-a-dozen obese nerd and part-time sociopath whose panic attacks in reaction to getting dumped are more like seizures and with all the social grace of a 1940s lobotomy patient. So we can all agree that my behavior has clearly been inappropriate? Good; I thought so; I am properly remorseful.