I love it!!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
I Was Wrong. I was very wrong...
About my Intercultural Communication Test. Hardest test I've had in a long time. Oh, this picture is what I found when I googled this article's title.
This Test Can't Be That Hard... Right? Naaa
This is what I found when I typed the title into google search.
This is how I'm feeling about my Intercultural Communication test that I have at 3:55 this afternoon. I hope its not hard because everything I'm reading, is common sense and I'm starting to get sleepy. I might take a nap on this table at the library I am currently sitting at. I dunno, I think I'm just going to wait and see how this plays out.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
I am Awesome... I Might be Depressed
1) I am awesome. Sometimes I'm all like, "this rules, I'm awesome".
2) All I want to listen to is "This is why I'm hot" and "Rock the Casbah"
3) My Ipod is fucking up so bad. This makes me depressed and very upset.
4) I'm not 21 and neither is Mister Futch.
5) I feel so good about myself and so shitty about everything.
6) I might be a woman (see # 5)
7) Why doesn't Shareff like it?
8) Fuck.
9) I want Mister Futch to turn 21
10) Fuck, when is November 18?
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Mr. Towel-- Oh Shit
This what I found when I google searched "Mr. Towel".
This is Mr. Towel.
I cannot believe this shit.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Monday, September 8, 2008
You're Sad...I Am Too
"I always feel the need to securely lock a bathroom stall door because pooping, much like studying, drinking, or having intercourse, is something I must do by myself."
Mister Futch
Thursday, September 4, 2008
"Today found me locked in a bathroom stall for around fifteen minutes."
The following is an account of a horrific period in my life which happened about 5 months ago. At the time it was written, I did not feel comfortable publishing it.
"Today as I finished my astronomy quiz on cosmology and dark matter, I went to Waggener Hall to await the commencement of my Latin class. Like I often do whenever I have any free time, I went to the restroom.
I entered the restroom (one of the most aesthetically pleasing on campus with its marbled stall walls and doors, a small antechamber leading into it, and ornate urinals presumably manufactured circa 1962; the only problem is the constant coffee-piss smell...) and moved to one of stalls, for I did, indeed, need to go #2. I hung my backpack on the provided hook and moved to close the faux-marble door.
I always feel the need to securely lock a bathroom stall door because pooping, much like studying, drinking, or having intercourse, is something I must do by myself. The lock was archaic at best; it resemebled a tiny little deadbolt complete with tiny little door knob (elliptically shaped; perhaps an inch long by half an inch wide). Some difficulty was had engaging the lock but after a little bit more force was applied, the lock locked. I went about my business and when I had finished, I pulled up my trousers and took my backpack off the hook and onto my shoulder. I made a move for the lock and found it to be firmly in place.
Knowing it to be stubborn from our encounter a few minutes previous, I applied more force. No avail. I applied yet more. Still to no avail. I used my entire strength to try to move the lock. Nothing (or nihil as I would soon be saying). I considered my options: I could wait for someone to come and help me but no one had entered the entire time I was in the restroom so I considered this to be a futile course of action; I could crawl out from under the stall but a quick examination not only revealed the opening to be too small for me to get through but the floor to be totally groooooossssssss. I sat back on the toilet and text messaged Mr. Toad to inform him of my situtation (I have always considered speaking in a restroom to be uncouth and a thing of low social grace).
I recieved no reply.
As the dread of my fate twined itself around me, I began to worry about whether I would be able to retake my Latin quiz, who would feed my dog, pay my rent or tell my friends and family that I starved to death in a bathroom stall (if I did not decide to take my own life before that occured). Everything seemed horrible and hopeless. I expected Beckett's ghost to float up out of the toilet bowl, laughing and saying, "Fuck life!" I resolved myself to change my fate. I put my body weight on the door, pushing it outwards and in effect freeing the bolt from whatever was constricting its movement. The knob turned with no effort.
I proceeded to Latin."
"Today as I finished my astronomy quiz on cosmology and dark matter, I went to Waggener Hall to await the commencement of my Latin class. Like I often do whenever I have any free time, I went to the restroom.
I entered the restroom (one of the most aesthetically pleasing on campus with its marbled stall walls and doors, a small antechamber leading into it, and ornate urinals presumably manufactured circa 1962; the only problem is the constant coffee-piss smell...) and moved to one of stalls, for I did, indeed, need to go #2. I hung my backpack on the provided hook and moved to close the faux-marble door.
I always feel the need to securely lock a bathroom stall door because pooping, much like studying, drinking, or having intercourse, is something I must do by myself. The lock was archaic at best; it resemebled a tiny little deadbolt complete with tiny little door knob (elliptically shaped; perhaps an inch long by half an inch wide). Some difficulty was had engaging the lock but after a little bit more force was applied, the lock locked. I went about my business and when I had finished, I pulled up my trousers and took my backpack off the hook and onto my shoulder. I made a move for the lock and found it to be firmly in place.
Knowing it to be stubborn from our encounter a few minutes previous, I applied more force. No avail. I applied yet more. Still to no avail. I used my entire strength to try to move the lock. Nothing (or nihil as I would soon be saying). I considered my options: I could wait for someone to come and help me but no one had entered the entire time I was in the restroom so I considered this to be a futile course of action; I could crawl out from under the stall but a quick examination not only revealed the opening to be too small for me to get through but the floor to be totally groooooossssssss. I sat back on the toilet and text messaged Mr. Toad to inform him of my situtation (I have always considered speaking in a restroom to be uncouth and a thing of low social grace).
I recieved no reply.
As the dread of my fate twined itself around me, I began to worry about whether I would be able to retake my Latin quiz, who would feed my dog, pay my rent or tell my friends and family that I starved to death in a bathroom stall (if I did not decide to take my own life before that occured). Everything seemed horrible and hopeless. I expected Beckett's ghost to float up out of the toilet bowl, laughing and saying, "Fuck life!" I resolved myself to change my fate. I put my body weight on the door, pushing it outwards and in effect freeing the bolt from whatever was constricting its movement. The knob turned with no effort.
I proceeded to Latin."
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