In the Kitchen around Midnight
I hate snakes. I spent one summer night sobbing in a blue Ford Explorer while a tiny, supposedly friendly, ball python chillaxed in his aquarium that rested between the driver's seat and my own. Sorry snake lovers, you can go fuck yourself.
On an unrelated note, Scrabble enthusiast can also go fuck themselves. Why? Well, the simple truth is: I can't spell. Years of studying romance languages have mangled my memory of English spelling. I'm very insecure. A well of anxiety washes over me whenever there is an occasion to spell "restaurant" or "consciousness." And believe me, in Boulder, these two words are only slightly less frequent than "thanks" and "green."
Since we're focused on facets of language, allow me to confess something else: I can't hear stress. I spent a year during my undergraduate in partial terror as Linguistic professors asked me to identify the stressed syllables in words like "about." A dirty trick. For those of you blessedly ignorant readers, the word "about" is considered to be mono-syllabic.
In retrospect, I wish that I had gone to the Office of Disabilities to report my handicap. And believe me, this was a serious fucking handicap.
You know, in a senior course, a writing instructor chastised me for swearing in a creative writing piece. She asked me whether or not there was another word that I could use that was less cliché. I responded politely that there was not.
In retrospect, I wish I had said, "Fuck no."
On an unrelated note, Scrabble enthusiast can also go fuck themselves. Why? Well, the simple truth is: I can't spell. Years of studying romance languages have mangled my memory of English spelling. I'm very insecure. A well of anxiety washes over me whenever there is an occasion to spell "restaurant" or "consciousness." And believe me, in Boulder, these two words are only slightly less frequent than "thanks" and "green."
Since we're focused on facets of language, allow me to confess something else: I can't hear stress. I spent a year during my undergraduate in partial terror as Linguistic professors asked me to identify the stressed syllables in words like "about." A dirty trick. For those of you blessedly ignorant readers, the word "about" is considered to be mono-syllabic.
In retrospect, I wish that I had gone to the Office of Disabilities to report my handicap. And believe me, this was a serious fucking handicap.
You know, in a senior course, a writing instructor chastised me for swearing in a creative writing piece. She asked me whether or not there was another word that I could use that was less cliché. I responded politely that there was not.
In retrospect, I wish I had said, "Fuck no."