In: Vaginal Diphtheria
I have purged the archives of this journal that I might begin anew, hopefully to update more than once every six months. Vanity, is.
A detailing of the current state of our young hero follows:
My five month bout of unemployablitily graciously ended in November when Hastings frantically hired around twenty people in an gross overestimate of the manpower required to operate the store over the X-Mas season. Against all odds, the management saw fit to scribble out the check next to Seasonal and add one next to Part-Time in my Employee Information File. Even more shocking, I have been dubbed Employee of the Month two months running, much to the dismay of my clearly Communist co-workers. While I am ashamed of the snapshot of my mug that blemishes one of the store's walls (just see if you can find it), the $50 in gift cards I've been awarded does help to soften this blow. I can be found most nights bent over, straightening one of the endless used cd fixtures, all the while cursing the Romans for their damned alphabet. In 25 days (twenty-five fucking days!?), when I turn 21, I will ascend to a managerial position.
I'm certain that in later years this will be hailed as the greatest mistake since the changing of the check marks. They're entrusting me with the money for chrissake.
All questions regarding my acamedic standing and major can be directed to the information desk down the hall, where you will likely be given a number and the finger.
Suffice to say: yes, I am, and no, I still don't.
< base account of what happens when four immature minds are moving in full force >
Last night we convinced Aaron, the biology major and prospective Ivy League Medical School student, that yeast infections are actually caused by a condition called "vaginal diphtheria," or as it was soon christened, "poo in the hole." I'm not sure how it got started, I think someone just threw out the nonesense phrase "vaginal diphtheria" to break a silence, and Aaron's ongoing, endearingly naive questions about the condition were enough to get us to keep up the pretense for some time. Always in favor of a good spot of nonesense, I contributed several possible hazardous activities that would lead to contracting this illness. In the interest of what good taste can be salvaged in this paragraph, I'll leave the depth of my decadence up to your imagination. It wasn't until this afternoon when, out of the blue, Aaron asked if we were just fucking around last night that I realized that he wasn't in on it. That sweet, silly bastard.
And since base is the theme of this post, I leave you with this little number that I received as a gift from a homeless girl I let live in my dorm room freshman year (that's an action packed sentence, but damn if it isn't fun to write). She told me at the time that it's a "Sins of the world Buddha," but I've taken to calling him "Auto-Fellatio Buddha." I think you see what I mean.
< /baseness >
A detailing of the current state of our young hero follows:
My five month bout of unemployablitily graciously ended in November when Hastings frantically hired around twenty people in an gross overestimate of the manpower required to operate the store over the X-Mas season. Against all odds, the management saw fit to scribble out the check next to Seasonal and add one next to Part-Time in my Employee Information File. Even more shocking, I have been dubbed Employee of the Month two months running, much to the dismay of my clearly Communist co-workers. While I am ashamed of the snapshot of my mug that blemishes one of the store's walls (just see if you can find it), the $50 in gift cards I've been awarded does help to soften this blow. I can be found most nights bent over, straightening one of the endless used cd fixtures, all the while cursing the Romans for their damned alphabet. In 25 days (twenty-five fucking days!?), when I turn 21, I will ascend to a managerial position.
I'm certain that in later years this will be hailed as the greatest mistake since the changing of the check marks. They're entrusting me with the money for chrissake.
All questions regarding my acamedic standing and major can be directed to the information desk down the hall, where you will likely be given a number and the finger.
Suffice to say: yes, I am, and no, I still don't.
< base account of what happens when four immature minds are moving in full force >
Last night we convinced Aaron, the biology major and prospective Ivy League Medical School student, that yeast infections are actually caused by a condition called "vaginal diphtheria," or as it was soon christened, "poo in the hole." I'm not sure how it got started, I think someone just threw out the nonesense phrase "vaginal diphtheria" to break a silence, and Aaron's ongoing, endearingly naive questions about the condition were enough to get us to keep up the pretense for some time. Always in favor of a good spot of nonesense, I contributed several possible hazardous activities that would lead to contracting this illness. In the interest of what good taste can be salvaged in this paragraph, I'll leave the depth of my decadence up to your imagination. It wasn't until this afternoon when, out of the blue, Aaron asked if we were just fucking around last night that I realized that he wasn't in on it. That sweet, silly bastard.
And since base is the theme of this post, I leave you with this little number that I received as a gift from a homeless girl I let live in my dorm room freshman year (that's an action packed sentence, but damn if it isn't fun to write). She told me at the time that it's a "Sins of the world Buddha," but I've taken to calling him "Auto-Fellatio Buddha." I think you see what I mean.
< /baseness >