Monday, October 12, 2009

Wash Jones

Man, it is so nifty that the US president is winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I mean, that guy is the role model. He not only became president despite people's prejudices against race (that actually isn't much of a problem anymore), he's winning the award that means you're a fantastic and nice person. Next, I'm pretty sure Obama is going to go into outer space, probably cure cancer, become a doctor, and turn into a rock star over night. And then mothers will be saying things like "If you drink your milk, Timmy, you'll become strong like the president!" and Timmy will gulp down his milk because the president is fucking awesome.

Okay, I should point out that none of that was sarcasm. I'm actually really happy to have a president that earns great things for doing great things. Especially since for most of my life we've had presidents that people absolutely hate for some reason or another; it's nice to have a guy running the place that we can look up to.

Alright, who the fuck is blaring Christmas music? That is inexcusable, especially since I'm pretty sure it is coming from the floor below me and the floor is really thick. Halloween hasn't happened yet, and I haven't even started planning for Thanksgiving. Blare some Monster Mash or something, will ya?

Ugh. I am so tired of the snow and the cold. I want it to be at least a tiny bit warm. Brisk, or chilly at the least. The kind of weather where all I need is a sweater to go outside. My face keeps going numb on the walk to my class. It's like, a five minute walk, and it is so painful for me. And some days I just can't bring myself to bundle up for the short walk to class, and all I pull on is a thick sweater. And it is on those days that I practically run to class, because after only one minute my ears start getting frostbitten. I swear to God the weather reports aren't telling the truth, and are saying it's about twenty degrees warmer than it really is.

Oh, remember how I was trying to do my laundry yesterday? I never fucking finished. Some girl kept ninjaing her way into the laundry room, taking up the only washing machine so I couldn't get another load done. I started at like, eleven in the morning, and finally gave up and hauled my dirty clothes out of the laundry room at about 5pm. Seriously, there is a bag of dirty clothes on top of the washer. That means that there is someone doing their clothes in there. It does not mean sneak in there, use their soap, and clean your own clothes. Motherfucker, I show some courtesy to someone and I get screwed over.

All of my clothes smell like wet dog.

Excuse me for a moment, I need to go kill my neighbor. They won't stop kicking the wall while coughing in a digusting manner. Maybe once she's dead I can get some sleep. At least then nobody would be hitting an oil drum with a crowbar, or whatever. Or, that's what it sounds like, at least.

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