Eggcelent.

5 Feb

Facebook has yet again gone under the knife. I am now bombarded with pop up boxes with the new feature that is not unlike AOL Instant Messenger. Although it’s bothersome now, I’m sure I’ll come to tolerate it in due time. I remember when the Mini Feed used to make me shit my pants, and now it’s my first go-to to see who finally broke up with who, who got arrested for possession, or who’s pooping. I do not like, however, that my notifications are hidden at the bottom of my page as if they are insignificant nothings.

Speaking of Facebook, how did I get here? A moment ago I was working diligently on my Media Tracking Assignment and perusing the UIowa Library site for sources. Suddenly, as if I blacked out, I’m stalking bitches I hate and experimenting with the new chat feature. I’m going to fail.

HOWEVER, I came to the IMU in a panic under the impression that my two papers were due tomorrow. Come to find out they aren’t due til Wednesday. OHHH again–the world revolves around me. It’s true.

VEISHEA is fast-approaching. Oh yes. In just five days, I will be soaking in beer from every pore in my body, sweating on others in a massive crowd of drunks, storming the campus and assaulting bus drivers. On a darker note, as if they wristband issue wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass already, now students can only purchase one wristband each, meaning friends of ISU students are shit out of luck. No worries though folks. I have no doubt that mobs of angry drunks will riot at the concert gates when the time comes that we’re denied entry. And as our good buddy John from Saw once said, “There will be blood.”

And beer. Dually noted.

There is one smell that everyone knows what it smells like but has never actually smelled, and that smell is rotten eggs. Nobody has ever smelled a rotten egg, yet we always compare foul odors to it. “God, what is that stench? It smells like rotten eggs,” we claim. But no. It takes a long ass time for eggs to go bad, and then you have to go through the trouble of smashing it somewhere and inhaling its malodorous scent before you can honestly compare it to some other smell.

Me: “MAGNAFLOW, huh?”
Cole: “You just wish you had a Magnaflow, bitch.”
Me: “I do. It’s called ‘my period.'”

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