A comment on the human condition
Taking a course on environmental studies has increased my awareness of environmental issues, the most prominent and distressing being my teacher's parking skills. I am faced with the option to either feel impressed or disheartened by the ability to unintentionally park a short bus less than six inches parallel to another car without so much as breathing on the paint job, but all I feel is sympathy for the other vehicle. It must have been a traumatizing experience.
On the subject of traumatizing experiences, I'd like to take the opportunity to talk about chocolate. I ate a piece of chocolate today; it had peanuts in it. I don't like any foreign substances obstructing my chocolate. Just knowledge of the existence of chocolate flavored condoms prompts from me the spontaneous and involuntary response comprised of the desire to step in front of a moving bus. It's not the kind of information that you can just elect to disown from your awareness. Certain articles of knowledge are easily dismissable--the content of St. Augustine's Confessions was rather violently exuded from my mind shortly after entering it. But chocolate flavored condoms are the kind of subtle factual congestion that will forever reside in the background of my conscious, waiting for ample opportunity to shit on my day. That's not even the most consequential of thoughts that plagues my mind. How can humanity reconcile the civic injustice that is banana flavored condoms?
But back to buses. Preceding my imminent self inflicted homicide via bus, it would be necessary to place a call into my teachers, (or email, more likely, given our lack of cell phone reception, but I'm willing sacrifice pedestrian details (read: truth) for the benefit of the narration) alerting them of my planned absence.
"I'm sorry, Alex can't come to class today. There's going to be a death in the family."
The applicability of this line is not limited to class absences, however. It turns out that jumping in front of a bus would make my life a hell of a lot simpler.
"I'm sorry, Alex can't write a seminar paper. There's going to be a death in the family."
"I'm sorry, Alex can't respond to her mother's emails. There's going to be a death in the family."
And so on.
Jules thinks I'm a concerning person. "You're a concerning person," she disclosed at the insightful hour of 3a.m. I can't imagine what would prompt her to come to such a conclusion.
Underwear Update: Since I instigated my posting history on this blog with the mention of questionable underwear placement, (though upon further consideration, underwear placement is invariably concerning. I should do my laundry more often.) for the sake of continuity I will further this extraneous trend with a recent encounter. A pair of panties was spotted lounging on the Crosby staircase. Bear in mind that I do not use the classification 'panties' lightly; in order to qualify for this particular echelon a pair of undergarments must meet certain requirements: (1) lace and (2) floral print. So these panties clung begrudgingly to the edge of a nondescript stair-step with an admiral indignant disposition. I feel that it is necessary to give them the recognition that every fallen soldier deserves.
If you have read through this in its entirety without developing multiple brain aneurysms, congratulations. You get absolutely nothing to show for your efforts.
Welcome to a life of disappointment, jackass.
-Alex
Taking a course on environmental studies has increased my awareness of environmental issues, the most prominent and distressing being my teacher's parking skills. I am faced with the option to either feel impressed or disheartened by the ability to unintentionally park a short bus less than six inches parallel to another car without so much as breathing on the paint job, but all I feel is sympathy for the other vehicle. It must have been a traumatizing experience.
On the subject of traumatizing experiences, I'd like to take the opportunity to talk about chocolate. I ate a piece of chocolate today; it had peanuts in it. I don't like any foreign substances obstructing my chocolate. Just knowledge of the existence of chocolate flavored condoms prompts from me the spontaneous and involuntary response comprised of the desire to step in front of a moving bus. It's not the kind of information that you can just elect to disown from your awareness. Certain articles of knowledge are easily dismissable--the content of St. Augustine's Confessions was rather violently exuded from my mind shortly after entering it. But chocolate flavored condoms are the kind of subtle factual congestion that will forever reside in the background of my conscious, waiting for ample opportunity to shit on my day. That's not even the most consequential of thoughts that plagues my mind. How can humanity reconcile the civic injustice that is banana flavored condoms?
But back to buses. Preceding my imminent self inflicted homicide via bus, it would be necessary to place a call into my teachers, (or email, more likely, given our lack of cell phone reception, but I'm willing sacrifice pedestrian details (read: truth) for the benefit of the narration) alerting them of my planned absence.
"I'm sorry, Alex can't come to class today. There's going to be a death in the family."
The applicability of this line is not limited to class absences, however. It turns out that jumping in front of a bus would make my life a hell of a lot simpler.
"I'm sorry, Alex can't write a seminar paper. There's going to be a death in the family."
"I'm sorry, Alex can't respond to her mother's emails. There's going to be a death in the family."
And so on.
I sent my parents a book about a week ago.
Maybe two weeks ago. I don't have time to waste keeping track of time.
Jules thinks I'm a concerning person. "You're a concerning person," she disclosed at the insightful hour of 3a.m. I can't imagine what would prompt her to come to such a conclusion.
Underwear Update: Since I instigated my posting history on this blog with the mention of questionable underwear placement, (though upon further consideration, underwear placement is invariably concerning. I should do my laundry more often.) for the sake of continuity I will further this extraneous trend with a recent encounter. A pair of panties was spotted lounging on the Crosby staircase. Bear in mind that I do not use the classification 'panties' lightly; in order to qualify for this particular echelon a pair of undergarments must meet certain requirements: (1) lace and (2) floral print. So these panties clung begrudgingly to the edge of a nondescript stair-step with an admiral indignant disposition. I feel that it is necessary to give them the recognition that every fallen soldier deserves.
If you have read through this in its entirety without developing multiple brain aneurysms, congratulations. You get absolutely nothing to show for your efforts.
Welcome to a life of disappointment, jackass.
-Alex
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