I signed up for classes this morning. My schedule for the Fall, unless I change it, is: Painting I, Intro to Film, and a half-credit Senior Research for Psych. Yeah. Two and a half classes for ten weeks. What a badass.
Before you murder me with two shotgun shells to the head, this is why I’m pretty sure I won’t take Hemingway: I went to the informational meeting. The prof hasn’t gotten us permission to go to Cuba, and probably won’t. There could still be the option to go to Key West for a few weeks, but I don’t know or particularly like anyone else who has expressed interest in the class. The prof talked about Hemingway for about 45 minutes and by the end of it I was itching to leave. This would be a 4.5-hour class. Of someone I can’t listen to for 45 minutes. And we would be reading a book a week. I went to the library last night and read some short stories and some sections of The Sun Also Rises and yeah, sure, I’m alright with The Hem, but not enough for a book a week and overloading credits.
So instead, I will spend the first ten weeks of my senior year of college painting pretty pictures and watching movies. Like a badass.
Don’tcha wish your girlfriend could pant asthmatically like me.
In case you are my friend on Facebook and your entire existence is tied up in a great confusion about what all of these “Flunk Day!!!!!!!” statuses are about, let me explain.
Flunk Day occurs in Spring Term every year. Very few know what day it will be, and those who know are sworn to secrecy. The rest of the school must rely on speculating about vague clues and hints via our school’s wiki. Most of these vague hints are just jokes about velociraptors and communism. Most of those are from me.
Flunk Day is also the one day of the year when it is not only appropriate but expected that you are woken up at 5:50 AM, you spend ten minutes refreshing your inbox for the official e-mail (because it is, more often than not, a scare), you immediately begin drinking obscene levels of alcohol, you run across campus half-naked in the cold and get into an enormous mud pit, get completely covered in mud that a frat boy has probably already peed in, take a shower, nap, and then start drinking again. Then come the water slides and the bouncy castles and the Abraham Lincoln impersonators and the alcohol poisoning.
Most of my school pride lies in the fact that we have a holiday where being drunk by 7 AM is an admirable feat, and not a problem you need to see someone about.
But what do I know. It’s 8 AM and I’m drrrruuuuunk. There will be another paint fight this afternoon and I will probably post an obscene number of pictures, just like last year. Right now, my feet are burning because I showered off a ton of mud and cleaned my shower with industrial solvents at the same time because MULTITASKING FUCK YEAH.
It feels like my brain is doing a complicated dance and it doesn’t know any of the steps so it just gets drunk and writhes around in the middle of the dance floor like a lunatic, then collapses in a static heap at the end of the night when everyone else is getting their coats to leave.
I heard you like symmetry and you got a cut under a toe on your left foot so I stubbed two toes on your right foot and un-healed the cut on your left foot so you can limp around like an idiot while you limp around like an idiot.
Definitely not the one where I had to pay in dental floss to be teleported to the circus while the Backstreet Boys looked on and laughed.
Definitely not that one.