Super-soak that hoe.

3 Feb

When I checked today’s weather on at 2:00 a.m. this morning, I was told to expect this:


  • Instead, I was confronted by this:

As usual, I was horribly unprepared for the apocalyptic weather. No umbrella, no sweatshirt. I was dressed to cruise the sunny boardwalk of San Fransisco in my athletic shorts and t-shirt, completely unprotected from the wrath of mother nature. I jacked a newspaper from a coffee shop table and “covered” my head as I speed walked to class, getting chilled to the bone.

After class ended, I stepped outside into a steamy post-rain atmosphere, thinking that I had luckily exited the building during a dry spell. Then, as if on cue, the sky went black faster than Michael Jackson went white, and the heavens released the mother load in the form of torrential rain that came down horizontally, teamed up with winds of immeasurable speed. It wasn’t just rain, either; it was rain, leaves, twigs, babies—debris was coming at me full force, and there was nothing I could do about it. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said aloud. My brisk walk quickly turned into a determined, full-fledged gallop as I hurtled through the lucky bastards with umbrellas on the sidewalk and leaped over medians to seek refuge in the IMU.

I’m soaked. I am literally drenched from head to foot. It looks like I’ve been gambling with my odds in the Dunk Tank at the carnival and lost. I took it upon myself to take advantage of my U-Bill and, out of necessity and for the sake of my own survival, purchased another sweatshirt from the book store. Thanks Mom.

The other night I was laying in bed with my window open, taking advantage of the cool night air, as I listened to cats scowling, babies crying, and people yelling at the tops of their lungs from the alley in the wee hours of the morn. I realized that I live in the ghetto. Our apartment building consistently smells of rotting eggs, weed, and afterbirth. There has been a bag in the hallway since last week that appears to contain vomit, and what looks like a baby’s head. It’s just been sitting in the middle of the hall, contributing to the overall smell of placenta our building has maintained since day one. Ah, the little bits of character that make up “home.”

We’ve got bugs. Yeap. Amy, Kehly and I accumulated 6+ garbage bags full of stinky, foul trash, and refused to take it out until it was absolutely necessary. That moment of course being after we discovered we had a colony of fruit flies inhabiting every room of our apartment. They’re everywhere. I’ve been squishing, swatting, and Febrezing them to death day in and day out, but it feels like for every gnat I kill, five more are born. Call the exterminator. We’ve got a problem.

Another thing about bugs: if you’re just sitting around minding your own business, they constantly hover around your head, buzzing and whining and bothering the shit out of you. Then as soon as you decide you’re going to kill it, it vanishes, and you sit there, frozen, for three solid minutes with tissue in hand, waiting to assassinate its ass. After sitting back, tired of waiting for it to buzz by, it reappears. I hate insects. I hate them.


I just returned from having to evacuate the ITC along with a good 100 other students due to a tornado warning. Not a watch, a “real deal” warning, meaning somewhere nearby, a funnel was spotted. Usually I am excited by this sort of thing, but I was already situated at my computer with my smorgasbord of shiv, and I didn’t feel like being herded into the center of the building away from windows and doors. Plus it smelled like public restroom where we all gathered. Anyway, it’s over. I lived.

“Who was the fourth person to—Scott! YOU set the mood. You made me eat all my peanuts.”


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