On my first day home, I:
1. Made apple crepes. Horrible, disfigured, rubbery apple crepes. 2. Discovered we have a back porch. We’ve lived here for a year and a half. Also, cooking is hard. You need to, like, go outside and buy stuff. And measure it. And then learn how to cook it. Into food.
My last night in New Orleans.
All the other girls left yesterday or today. I think I’m the only one on my floor in the Volunteer House. I may get out tomorrow morning and go down to the end of Canal Street again, maybe ride the ferry across to Algiers one more time. By the time I finished my fancy seafood dinner alone tonight, everywhere was closing. At around 6 or 7, the French Quarter seems to lock up, take a deep...
Breasts are like children.
bliccy: No, seriously, hear me out. You know how people are always saying, “You THINK you want kids. But spend a day with them. A weekend. A week. You have no idea. They LOOK like fun, but they’re a lot of work. You’ll be begging someone to take them back.” Seriously. Spend a week with my chest before you say you wish you had bigger boobs. You’ll weep tears of relief the next time you go bra...
I was going to post a picture of the Garden...
Tonight I got grabbed repeatedly by a drunk homeless man at a bar, thus prompting me to want to leave. The girl I was with was too drunk to give a shit, and her only response to my panic was to ask for $10 so she could get a ride home later, because she didn’t want to go yet. Not even to the end of the block to wait with me for a cab. She then told me I’d be “fine to walk alone...
I hope your an A.
I may or may not have put a picture of a unicorndog on the front page of my Fiction final portfolio in hopes of its magestic wonder boosting my grade up. It’s very possible that I did.
Natural Harvest: A Collection of Semen-Based... →
My roommate started reading this aloud to me. By the time she got to “extra-White Russians”, I had pretty much gone ahead and died.