Baked Goods.

4 Feb

It is the goal of somebody working in the IMU to broil me alive. Not kidding, when I arrive in this institution to do my homework, it becomes apparent that an enemy of mine is trying to roast my ass like a Thanksgiving turkey. The computer lab quickly becomes a convection oven, and my blood boils like sautee on the stove. Nobody’s safe anymore.

On that note, I cannot WAIT for Thanksgiving dinner. You’d better believe I’ll be swimming in a cauldron of mashed sweet potatoes and shampooing my hair with gravy by 4 p.m. central daylight time. Get on it, ma.

While drying my hands after using the restroom this afternoon, I noticed a sticker on the side of the automatic paper towel disposal right above the knob that rolls it out that read “FOR EMERGENCY FEED, TURN KNOB.” Immediately I began brainstorming what might classify as a paper towel “emergency,” if anything does at all. I suppose if you’re well into your third trimester of pregnancy and your water breaks in the handicap stall, that might be considered an emergency in that context. Other than that, I’m lost.

ANYwho, I don’t have time to fiddle faddle with note-writing this evening. I have a plateful of paper-writing to do instead. You may or may not find me hanging myself from my shower curtain later in the night. We’ll see if I can keep my sanity. I’ll be making no promises.

“Not ONE, DAMN, clue.”


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