UNTITLED
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE IN THE COMMUTER LOUNGE.
I'm trying to write a very important essay concerning art historical methodology and these dudes are over here on the couches mewing about what FUCKING ICE CREAM IS THE MOST DELICIOUS AND PROPER TO PURCHASE FOR ONES FATHER.
"You know what's surprisingly good? Butterscotch."
"Ooooh yah."
"Do they still make Superman icecream?"
I HATE IT HERE. I WISH I HAD A FUCKING LAP TOP. I WOULD RATHER BE TYPING IN THE SNOW. WHY THE FUCK DID IT HAVE TO SNOW. WHY TO PEOPLE DRIVE EIGHT MPH IN A THIN SHEEN OF SNOW. WHY.
In in five and a half hours everything I have worked on in the past week (and when I say week understand that I mean week STRAIGHT. Total sleep hours across seven days totalling probably 12) and I will officially have a spillion tons less stress on my shoulders.
Fuck this smelly shit hole and the shitheads that hang out here.
I'm trying to write a very important essay concerning art historical methodology and these dudes are over here on the couches mewing about what FUCKING ICE CREAM IS THE MOST DELICIOUS AND PROPER TO PURCHASE FOR ONES FATHER.
"You know what's surprisingly good? Butterscotch."
"Ooooh yah."
"Do they still make Superman icecream?"
I HATE IT HERE. I WISH I HAD A FUCKING LAP TOP. I WOULD RATHER BE TYPING IN THE SNOW. WHY THE FUCK DID IT HAVE TO SNOW. WHY TO PEOPLE DRIVE EIGHT MPH IN A THIN SHEEN OF SNOW. WHY.
In in five and a half hours everything I have worked on in the past week (and when I say week understand that I mean week STRAIGHT. Total sleep hours across seven days totalling probably 12) and I will officially have a spillion tons less stress on my shoulders.
Fuck this smelly shit hole and the shitheads that hang out here.