Things to do in Stanford when you're dead.
My god, I'm writing in this again. Well, it's not exactly the same. It no longer has the rich (and sordid) history that it once did. No more creation date in 2001. It feels so new. I suppose it lends itself nicely to rebirth, or something like that, assuming that's even what I'm going for.
No, it's not. I just want to let you, trusted friends and relations, know what's going on, and perhaps that will provide me with some impetus to chronicle whatever happens here.
Moving on...
It's a few minutes past 7:30, and I'm sitting at my desk, located immediately to the right of the bunk bed that I am now sharing with an extremely tall Italian named Andrea. We have another roommate, a German-born Cantonese guy from Southern California, but he's almost never here. Which is too bad, because he took the single room, and it pains both of us to see it so wasted. I'd forgotten all about bunk beds, or maybe I'd sequestered the knowledge of the existence of bunk beds away in some remote corner of my memory. When I was a kid, I really wanted one. My cousin Jeremy had one in his room, and he used the top bunk for sleeping and turned the bottom into a fort. When I finally slept in the top bunk of a bunk bed, I was in seventh grade, at some nature camp. It was unpleasant. It appeared to have been constructed by the hippies who ran the camp. As in, uneven semi-finished boards probably held together with hemp and environmentally friendly wooden nails. My relationship with bunk beds has yet to improve.
I slept very poorly last night. For the past two nights, I've been having nightmares about time zones. What the hell?
So I was going to write about my Delta experience, and about San Francisco and coming to Stanford, but it will have to wait. Andrea and I were planning to get coffee, and he seems to be somewhat awake now.
Fucking bunk beds Fucking sunburn.
No, it's not. I just want to let you, trusted friends and relations, know what's going on, and perhaps that will provide me with some impetus to chronicle whatever happens here.
Moving on...
It's a few minutes past 7:30, and I'm sitting at my desk, located immediately to the right of the bunk bed that I am now sharing with an extremely tall Italian named Andrea. We have another roommate, a German-born Cantonese guy from Southern California, but he's almost never here. Which is too bad, because he took the single room, and it pains both of us to see it so wasted. I'd forgotten all about bunk beds, or maybe I'd sequestered the knowledge of the existence of bunk beds away in some remote corner of my memory. When I was a kid, I really wanted one. My cousin Jeremy had one in his room, and he used the top bunk for sleeping and turned the bottom into a fort. When I finally slept in the top bunk of a bunk bed, I was in seventh grade, at some nature camp. It was unpleasant. It appeared to have been constructed by the hippies who ran the camp. As in, uneven semi-finished boards probably held together with hemp and environmentally friendly wooden nails. My relationship with bunk beds has yet to improve.
I slept very poorly last night. For the past two nights, I've been having nightmares about time zones. What the hell?
So I was going to write about my Delta experience, and about San Francisco and coming to Stanford, but it will have to wait. Andrea and I were planning to get coffee, and he seems to be somewhat awake now.
Fucking bunk beds Fucking sunburn.