Funny Story
November 4th, 2005
So I’m sitting here in the library in between the Aims lecture and Visual Lit, and I set my hand on my lap and got all paranoid because I felt something in my pants pocket. (Before the sickos continue, no, it wasn’t that.)
Anyway, I’m trying to decipher what was in my pocket. From what I could feel through my jeans, it was jagged and moved left-to-right, but wasn’t bendable. My first thought was one of those sword sticks from kiddie cocktails, but seeing as I haven’t had one of those in FOREVER, I ruled that out quickly. As I moved whatever it was, it clanked against something else that was behind it. Alright, so now I have two strange things in my pocket.
Keep in mind, this is occurring over the course of like three minutes, and I’m in the middle of the upstairs of the library and people are all around me as I’m looking perplexed at my pants.
Finally, the thought crosses my mind to stick my hand IN my pocket and see what is there. I’m sure everyone else has figured this out by now, but it was my KEYS.
Yup, that’s my day. I feel, once again, like I should not be allowed in the world on my own.
Other updates from the day: the Aims lecture was interesting, but horribly long and I checked out after a while. Started sleeping. The lady’s voice was soothing, so it was a good lil’ nap. My 8 a.m. was cancelled, so I got a little extra sleep today, which was glorious. Last night was the Up ’til Dawn thing, and I proceeded to send letters to everyone I could think of, which included each named mouse that has been at the house, dead childhood pets and the people who were sitting around the table with me.
OH! And then, if you wrote fifty letters, you got a Nalgene, which was cool. So I definitely wrote fifty and DID NOT get a Nalgene, because the bitch who was counting the letters wouldn’t give me one because she counted only 48. What the hell? I definitely wrote letters for the ENTIRE STACK that they gave me. Don’t give me shit because YOU can’t give me fifty letters in a stack. So that was two hours of my life that I’ll never get back.
On top of the security incident earlier. I HATE THIS PLACE. Only sometimes. I need a vacation. And Jack Daniels. And most definitely the male prostitute. Actually, if I could have a vacation that consisted of Jack Daniels and a male prostitute, that would be lovely. Unfortunately I’m broke, which rules out all three. And I don’t like whisky. Damn it all to hell!
