Is it frigidly cold in my apartment right now? Yes. Could my nipples cut glass currently? Yes again.
Yesterday I awoke from my deep slumber and ventured out into the kitchen to prepare myself a balanced breakfast. As I glanced out the window, I noticed a police car parked in front of my building. I took a closer look and realized it was a “Parole Officer” car. I’m living with criminals; criminals that need checking up on, periodically.
Feels good to know you’re surrounded by family.
I went about my daily activities on campus and began to make my way home, consequently crossing paths with the smelliest homeless man to ever disgrace planet earth. My right lung collapsed. I died. After huffing and puffing and receiving mouth-to-mouth from Hayden Christiansen who happened to be in the neighborhood and CPR certified, I traveled onward. The next character I came upon? A man with two prosthetic legs driving a moped.
My only reaction was, “How?” That’s all.
Oh, then there was this:
They don’t want the paper. Stop delivering it to them.
Cassie, Kehly and I go to Hy-Vee to purchase a surplus of alcohol. Kehly and I lug the loot into our kitchen and begin trying to fit all our bottles and a giant bag of ice into our freezer. There were dozens of Lean Cuisines and frozen pizzas stacked every which way inside, and trying to fanagle ice and alcohol in there was like playing an impossible game of Tetris. Our solution?
We decided to get nice and liquored up starting around quarter to seven, and spent three quality hours getting sloppy and talking about everyone we hated (the list is unending, really. If you got really fat after high school or have had sex with more than 10 people, you were in–don’t worry). Taren joined us for a time before heading downtown, and then the three of us high-tailed it to a party where I hated on a white gangster man, making fun of his “Crocs.” He wasn’t wearing them, but they were ugly duck shoes that may as well have been Crocs. He cried.
Kehly and I leave and make our way to Trent’s keg. After a fifty mile hike through bumble fuck Iowa City, we arrive. I am too drunk to mingle, so I station myself in front of the bar (strategic move) and decide to chat with Jon and Megan Conlon. At some point I decided that Tommy Harris was trying to kill me by sneaking Everclear into my drinks when I wasn’t looking, so I began scrutinizing his every move and judging him harshly. Sorry Tommy. Eventually I became very bored and Taren and I decided to get Panchero’s.
We begin walking from Melrose, and I decide this walk was not one I cared to do twice in one evening. I flag down a minivan. Inside was a physically disabled man with a baby seat in the back. I ask him for a ride. He complies. I cuddle with the babyseat in the back and munch on graham crackers sitting there. He kindly drives us to our Mexican paradise. We thank him and get out.
Our goal was to go before barclose so the place would be virtually deserted and we would flash our titties for free food. We arrive outside and see that there are a good twenty or more people in line. Taren says, “Go in the back door.” I’m like, “Taren, we can’t. All those people in line will see. Our line-cutting will be so obvious!” She refuses to back down. I follow her. We slip inside the door between two men. They don’t even notice. We are pleased as pie with ourselves. We get our food and sit down, and make fun of the obliterated boy being drug around by two skinny bitches in heels. They tell us it is his 21st. We continue to laugh and wish them good luck.
My plan for the day? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I plan on sitting, watching television, re-watching movies, downloading music, visiting the gym, sleeping, and other leisurely activities not unlike the ones listed. Bye now.
“We just set off fireworks in Steve’s room and then threw water on him pretending there was a fire.”
-Cole, 12:54 a.m.