4 Feb

I am about through with my preparations for Exam numero uno. This is exciting for a number of reasons: 1) I was on the verge of suicide, and 2) I can stop eating, breathing, and shitting journalistic history.

Again, I am freezing. This seems to be the biggest theme concerning my existence these days: my body temperature, and my hatred for education. That being said, this building is colder than Michael Vick’s heart. My ability to type accurately is being affected by the numbness of my fingers. I could be happier.

WELL, 11 more days until I’m back in the sweetness of the Bluffs. I am looking forward to it like Kehly looks forward to the sound of the dinner bell. The month will be spent rolling in small quantities of dough from Taco John’s, spending time with my distanced amigos, and of course, binge drinking on a daily basis. You can imagine my anticipation.

IN OTHER NEWS regarding Christmas break, Steamboat is on the agenda. I look forward to this trip with the intensity of a crazy person every year. I could vomit just thinking about how fantastic this trip is going to be. Not only is my fam going up, but we’re bringing Jamie “Drunkass” Stueve, and Katie “four foot shit” McDermott. On top of that, Drew and James are coincidentally making the same trip at the same time, so Kyle “Doctor” Rannells is probably joining. OH BOY!!!! I’ll tell you what I’m not looking forward to, however: the Cabela’s chapter of the trip.

Ah yes, the convenient detour my father insists on making on EVERY vacation we have ever taken. What begins as a quick pit stop turns into a two hour long examination of the entire empire-like building, inch by inch. I fiddle with fishing line and stroke dead zebras while my dad crawls around on his hands and knees, sniffing bullet casings and getting high on gun cleaner. I watch the sun go down as he tries on various sporting equipment for activities he does not participate in, such as harpooning, and harass him until he finally agrees to leave, but not until he purchases another fly fishing rod to add to his unused collection.

The Cabela’s “stop” is inevitable, but this year I’m going to be prepared. I plan on taking five or six shots of Nyquil beforehand so that I am rendered unconscious for that portion of the voyage. This way I can block it from my memory by not experiencing it in the first place on account of being knocked the F out.

Sometimes I laugh at how brilliant I am.

Then I slap Kehly for being the opposite.

There’s a new phenomena sweeping the nation, making the sanctuary of a quiet library the new open mic hour for amateur rock stars. I am sitting in what is named the “Quiet Study” of the ITC, as usual, and the gentlefag to my right has his headphones blaring. That’s not what’s bothering me. Not only can I hear his shitty music through his sound-barrier breaking iPod, but he is singing along in a tone that I presume he thinks is under his breath. Instead, it’s a forceful, breathy loud whisper. It’s aggravating. I’m so angry right now. I slowly swiveled in my chair to stare at him, hoping he would notice and knock it the fuck off. No such luck. The bastard is still wheezing Pantera, thinking he is unnoticed.

Seriously, throw me a gun.

Me: “I’m so cold. Boy am I cold.”
Laurel: “Well the song certainly isn’t titled ‘Baby it’s relatively warm outside.'”


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