So it seems that I have yet to contribute anything to this blog.....
exempting a handful of guest appearances made in the 3rd person, despite Jules tactful persuasion; "You're such an asshole. Write a blog post you fuck." It was these inspirational words that prompted me to open a new tab on the web browser, and move the junk from one side of my bed (for the sake of clarity I feel that I should specify; my laptop, more often than not with me attached to it, takes residence on my bed while my desk is reserved for the storage of various necessities, including but not limited to: cookies, febreeze, and severed human fingers) to the other as not to impede upon myprogress procrastination. Thus, I set out on a valiant quest to procure this elusive creature called Motivation. I considered writing a blog post about my inability to write a blog post, but after much internal debate I came to the conclusion that the paradox of such a thing would bring about the sudden and tragic demise of the world. So, with no transitional phrasing whatsoever, I shall now recount the mundane proceedings of the day.
I cleaned our room today. Whatever practical definition or connotations you may hold about the word "cleaned" likely does not apply in this situation, because in all actuality the action that I preformed more closely resembled reshuffling the piles of mess in the room; less for the benefit of the room's sanitation as a whole and more for my own mental well being. After the room was sufficiently shuffled, I took a moment to ponder what antagonistic force could possibly be disrupting the aura of the room (which I determined to be Top Ramen, for those wondering), and it all came back to the duct tape.
I vanquished the duct tape like a hero of old. If you are having trouble picturing this scenario, turn your imaginative focus to that of the Hercules when he severed the nine heads of the Hydra. In layman's terms: "I fucked shit up."
Sometimes I glimpse the duct tape out of the corner of my eye, like some sort of ghastly visage returned from the grave to haunt me, or maybe it just hasn't passed through purgatory yet and is trapped in some sort of transitional state between existence and non-existence. I should have left this job to the Ghost Busters.
My mother called yesterday, which resulted in a very unfortunate phone conversation that left us (I am referring to Jules and myself in this situation, but if you would rather believe that I am talking about the duct tape as an animate entity I encourage you to do so) both emotionally traumatized. My mother had a lot to say, but no discernibly cogent points to accompany her words. She was quite adamant that I buy a rather gratuitous pair of snow boots, though besides being grievously overpriced I failed to recognize any particular quality that could have caused my mother's infatuation with them. Unless they were crafted from the hide of the illusive Motivation, in which case I have greatly underestimated my mother's shopping prowess.
I suppose that it may be worth mentioning that a tornado leveled our school to the ground today, killing everyone on campus and significantly reducing the already dwindling population of Great Barrington. I haven't yet met my quota for dramatization or cliches, so I'm obligated to begin this anecdote with "It was a dark and stormy night", though really it was afternoon, and as far 'dark and stormy' go it was really more of a Junior Varisity storm. Of course in contrast with the pleasant heat stroke-inducing weather of the past few weeks, today's mild drizzle was a clear signifier of the apocalypse, and thus we were shepherded from our rooms and into the laundry room, apparently deemed a tornado-free zone. It makes logistical sense if you think about it, if you were a tornado you would take care to avoid the pungent aggregation of our dirty socks and underwear too. So we, the residents and cave-dwellers of Crosby, sat on the laundry room floor. It reeked of humanity. And socks.
I have yet to see a tornado, smell a tornado, or hear a tornado. Come to think of it, the tornado hasn't been very active on twitter lately, and it has yet to return my calls. I really should have bought it dinner first. Though I did discover an unclaimed pair of hot pink zebra striped underwear in our laundry, which may in fact belong to the tornado.
-Alex
exempting a handful of guest appearances made in the 3rd person, despite Jules tactful persuasion; "You're such an asshole. Write a blog post you fuck." It was these inspirational words that prompted me to open a new tab on the web browser, and move the junk from one side of my bed (for the sake of clarity I feel that I should specify; my laptop, more often than not with me attached to it, takes residence on my bed while my desk is reserved for the storage of various necessities, including but not limited to: cookies, febreeze, and severed human fingers) to the other as not to impede upon my
I cleaned our room today. Whatever practical definition or connotations you may hold about the word "cleaned" likely does not apply in this situation, because in all actuality the action that I preformed more closely resembled reshuffling the piles of mess in the room; less for the benefit of the room's sanitation as a whole and more for my own mental well being. After the room was sufficiently shuffled, I took a moment to ponder what antagonistic force could possibly be disrupting the aura of the room (which I determined to be Top Ramen, for those wondering), and it all came back to the duct tape.
I vanquished the duct tape like a hero of old. If you are having trouble picturing this scenario, turn your imaginative focus to that of the Hercules when he severed the nine heads of the Hydra. In layman's terms: "I fucked shit up."
Sometimes I glimpse the duct tape out of the corner of my eye, like some sort of ghastly visage returned from the grave to haunt me, or maybe it just hasn't passed through purgatory yet and is trapped in some sort of transitional state between existence and non-existence. I should have left this job to the Ghost Busters.
My mother called yesterday, which resulted in a very unfortunate phone conversation that left us (I am referring to Jules and myself in this situation, but if you would rather believe that I am talking about the duct tape as an animate entity I encourage you to do so) both emotionally traumatized. My mother had a lot to say, but no discernibly cogent points to accompany her words. She was quite adamant that I buy a rather gratuitous pair of snow boots, though besides being grievously overpriced I failed to recognize any particular quality that could have caused my mother's infatuation with them. Unless they were crafted from the hide of the illusive Motivation, in which case I have greatly underestimated my mother's shopping prowess.
I suppose that it may be worth mentioning that a tornado leveled our school to the ground today, killing everyone on campus and significantly reducing the already dwindling population of Great Barrington. I haven't yet met my quota for dramatization or cliches, so I'm obligated to begin this anecdote with "It was a dark and stormy night", though really it was afternoon, and as far 'dark and stormy' go it was really more of a Junior Varisity storm. Of course in contrast with the pleasant heat stroke-inducing weather of the past few weeks, today's mild drizzle was a clear signifier of the apocalypse, and thus we were shepherded from our rooms and into the laundry room, apparently deemed a tornado-free zone. It makes logistical sense if you think about it, if you were a tornado you would take care to avoid the pungent aggregation of our dirty socks and underwear too. So we, the residents and cave-dwellers of Crosby, sat on the laundry room floor. It reeked of humanity. And socks.
I have yet to see a tornado, smell a tornado, or hear a tornado. Come to think of it, the tornado hasn't been very active on twitter lately, and it has yet to return my calls. I really should have bought it dinner first. Though I did discover an unclaimed pair of hot pink zebra striped underwear in our laundry, which may in fact belong to the tornado.
-Alex
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