I spent no longer than 90 seconds in my usual IMU computer lab before deciding the cold was too ridiculous and packing up camp to move to the “IMU Quiet Study ITC.” I was immediately encompassed with a sort of cottage-in-the-forest like warmth and the tranquil harmony of this so-named “Quiet Study.”
No sooner had I gotten settled away in my nook to study, however, when the honk of tubas started trumpeting away from somewhere near in the building, followed by the furious, clamoring fanfare of a thousand drums. Ultimately I have exchanged hypothermia for partial deafness. I’ll deal, but they win…they always do.
A new phenomena has been making me fear for my safety on the University of Iowa campus lately, and it has nothing to do with attacks from infuriated ethnic groups or fear of freezing to death in the computer lab. It’s bees. Bumble bees, honey bees, killer bees– bees of all sorts. I can’t take ten steps in the great outdoors without my personal space being invaded and life threatened by the blitzkrieg of a bee or bees.
There is no rational reason for this: I never shower. I am a dirty greaseball always, and in no way emit any pleasant fragrance resembling flowers or honey that might function to attract the winged beast and its potentially harmful stinger. Nature got its wires crossed with this one; bees, back the F off before I Raid your ass.
Okay, not kidding: six words into the above paragraph, a musical explosion complete with clamoring cymbals, pounding repercussion, reverberating bassline and blaring voices resonating from straining microphones is vibrating my entire surrounding environment, the “supposed” Quiet Study Lounge. What in the hell is going on out there. The only event to my knowledge supposed to be gracing the IMU today is the appearance of Gloria Allred, and I don’t think she deserves a full orchestrated welcoming. Maybe some posters and stickers. Just my opinion.
My tan is rapidly fading. My blindingly white epidermis is beginning to reflect sunlight like a sheet of aluminum, and I will slowly but surely be blending in with the colorless walls of my lecture halls, invisible to my fellow students and professors alike. Perhaps I will invest in a tanning package.
So word on the street is that Owen Wilson attempted to commit suicide. Well, THAT one came way out of left field if I do say so myself. What the tits is wrong with this man? I exercised my freedom to not do any pre-writing research on the matter because I’m too lazy, so I expect to get bombarded with information concerning his motives and predictable drug addictions of various sorts. I’m sure I wasn’t alone when I say that my mind immediately jumped to the scene in Wedding Crashers where he says, “I’m hanging by a thread here! I’m reading ‘don’t kill myself’ books.”
Perhaps he should have thieved that book, mmm? Ha. Irony is fun.
In other startling news, I noticed that “they” have created a “The Hills” video game now. Wow. Where to begin. What in the dickens is the goal of the game? I can only imagine the myriad of plausible missions: making it to the nail salon on time, deciding whether to purchase a Valentino or Gucci handbag, choosing whether to drive the Bentley or the Mercedes to The Ivy for dinner, and probably points to steal boyfriends and “talk shit” about the other bitches in the game. What ever happened to Sonic the Hedgehog on Sega? For fuck’s sake.
“The Plan” from this point forward: Pee my pants. Do laundry. Hit ze gym. Sleep. Class. Head to Ames. Get drunk while I head to Ames. Get drunker upon arrival to Ames. Pass out. Get drunk again.
I like the agenda.
“If you can’t entertain yourself, you aren’t a writer.”