Imperialists! Marxists! Scientists! Spits!
NEW JOB!!!
Cuz Blackbird kinda just gave up on me (like my kidney! Ha!)(that was a terrible joke). So now I'm an usher for the Schimmel theater. I get paid shit but I get to pick my own shifts whenever I want. There's almost always something happening during the school year, supposedly, and maybe I will meet a famous celebrity while ushering for Inside the Actor's Studio. This famous celebrity and I will discuss...donuts.
School starts tomorrow with a healthy set of classes. There are all these frosh running around which makes me think of poor Lucy alone at Skidmore. Oh well, sucks for her. How about Indian food? I do love it so. After this I am off to try that Indian place on Church St which I've never been to. What was that dream I had last night...oh yea, that I was fully clothed in a bathtub and someone was reading me a story. It's probably about death, they always are.
I found an old USB I used as a freshman and was kind of startled by it. There was some kind of amusing stuff on there; here's a rant about getting drunk one time, apparently titled "drunk in union, red sweatshirt"
But it’s two at night. A man in an obnoxiously red sweatshirt sits a yard away from me. In my stupor I invite him to a BBQ in that yard, or a birthday, whichever comes first. So the people I was physically with are flirting with some guys pretending to be Olympic soccer players, for Greece, and I’m with Mr. Sweatshirt. He speaks, I think, “Too many liberals in this town…I’ve lived here all my life and there’s just too many god damn liberals…” The voice is diesel and gravel, probably a messed up construction worker in a similar tank as mine. I do the best I can to sit up straight but end up at a 45 degree angle to the east. I love this guy, so I agree and add, “They’re domestic terrorists!” “Ahh fuck yeah!” “They’re why this financial crisis…IS!” “Ahh fuck yeah!” “They’re drugs and spit and gum and dirt!” “And liberals!” “And liberals they are!” We toast to the air and drink in the aquarium some more. For the five minutes red sweatshirt guy is in my life we are dead pescados sitting on ice in a fisherman’s wharf with little children gawking at how hideous, slimy and gross we are.
It has the same ring to it as my high school graduation speech. Where's that? My mom has it in a bin, I hand wrote it about 90 minutes before the actual ceremony. Hott Mama laminated it, she laminated my discussions of riding motorcycles on the cosmos and fucking life to just to spite the girl I had a thing for. Solid stuff, I miss my pink bunny tie.
Cuz Blackbird kinda just gave up on me (like my kidney! Ha!)(that was a terrible joke). So now I'm an usher for the Schimmel theater. I get paid shit but I get to pick my own shifts whenever I want. There's almost always something happening during the school year, supposedly, and maybe I will meet a famous celebrity while ushering for Inside the Actor's Studio. This famous celebrity and I will discuss...donuts.
School starts tomorrow with a healthy set of classes. There are all these frosh running around which makes me think of poor Lucy alone at Skidmore. Oh well, sucks for her. How about Indian food? I do love it so. After this I am off to try that Indian place on Church St which I've never been to. What was that dream I had last night...oh yea, that I was fully clothed in a bathtub and someone was reading me a story. It's probably about death, they always are.
I found an old USB I used as a freshman and was kind of startled by it. There was some kind of amusing stuff on there; here's a rant about getting drunk one time, apparently titled "drunk in union, red sweatshirt"
But it’s two at night. A man in an obnoxiously red sweatshirt sits a yard away from me. In my stupor I invite him to a BBQ in that yard, or a birthday, whichever comes first. So the people I was physically with are flirting with some guys pretending to be Olympic soccer players, for Greece, and I’m with Mr. Sweatshirt. He speaks, I think, “Too many liberals in this town…I’ve lived here all my life and there’s just too many god damn liberals…” The voice is diesel and gravel, probably a messed up construction worker in a similar tank as mine. I do the best I can to sit up straight but end up at a 45 degree angle to the east. I love this guy, so I agree and add, “They’re domestic terrorists!” “Ahh fuck yeah!” “They’re why this financial crisis…IS!” “Ahh fuck yeah!” “They’re drugs and spit and gum and dirt!” “And liberals!” “And liberals they are!” We toast to the air and drink in the aquarium some more. For the five minutes red sweatshirt guy is in my life we are dead pescados sitting on ice in a fisherman’s wharf with little children gawking at how hideous, slimy and gross we are.
It has the same ring to it as my high school graduation speech. Where's that? My mom has it in a bin, I hand wrote it about 90 minutes before the actual ceremony. Hott Mama laminated it, she laminated my discussions of riding motorcycles on the cosmos and fucking life to just to spite the girl I had a thing for. Solid stuff, I miss my pink bunny tie.