Obama wins.
Bitches.
The man's got a face hewn from stone and lips as black as sin; the obvious choice for the leader of the free world.
Can we still call ourselves that?
Frequent spacing gives my passive prose the weight of deliberate and meaningful thought; also, it makes it look bigger.
My internship is awesome; well, actually it kind of sucks, but in a good way. I get to do boring uninteresting tasks all day, but it's preparing me for a career in which such painfully mundane tasks build to occasional crescendoes of mind-bending joy and fulfillment. It's like a stepladder to Heaven built entirely of razor-sharp d4's.
Random segue? Oh yeah,
that just happened.I imagine you think of a d4 as being rather puny, as damage dice go.
You've obviously never stepped on one.
Anyway.
Sooo, I work about 40+ hours over six days out of the week. I make it out to the gym four days a week, averaging about an hour and change each visit. I make multiple shopping trips throughout the average hebdomad* in order to keep my woefully bare pantry in some semblance of repletion. I try to go for at least a 45-minute to an hour walk every day. Twice a week, I bum around in Matt's garage.
I guess what I'm trying to put down is that I'm awfully damn busy, at least as far as young college men on summer furlough are concerned. And yet, here I sit on a Tuesday evening at just past eight, with absolutely nothing to do and no one to do it with. Dusk is settling and the temperature's finally dropped off; I'd love to go out and kick a ball around with "the guyz," watch a crappy movie in shared agony or just go out and "keep it real" for a few hours before I have to retire in time to be up for work tomorrow. Yet, nothing seems to be going on. Logically I can only deduce two valid hypotheses:
1. The majority of my acquaintances are busier than I am.
2. The majority of my acquaintances are doing stuff that doesn't involve me.
I suppose a third possibility might incorporate horrible illnesses, debilitating dismemberment, and a shared consensus in which many were as one in sitting around twiddling their thumbs and writing semi-angsty "blog" posts which occasionally dipped deep in the waters of pedantic hyperbole; still, I find it best to restrain myself from desultory attempts at humor. Thus, having likely joined the unwashed ranks of the socially undesirable like Mitch and Tyler (sorry Mitch and Tyler, but I figure the chances of you reading this are rather slim. If so, hey! We're losers together! Let's hang out sometime. Shower first.) I feel an ever more pressing urge to get away from this area; it's almost depressing, to savor the essence of this same foolish ignorance and willful folly welling up when I so often lambasted friends, family members and lovers intoxicated by its fragrance. I won't say I was wrong in my prior judgments, only that my actions now are purposefully perpendicular to the route my feet once walked.
I was going to end that paragraph with some adriot and didactic line about the soles of my feet catching the briefest whiff of wanderlust, etc. etc.
Unfortunately, the sheer overweening ego of the sentence was too great for the structure to maintain (grammatically correct though it was,) causing the entire thing to collapse into the endless void between paragraphs.
Thirty-two vowels, ninety-three consonants and one brave period lost their lives in the tragic aftermath.
Never again.
*Fuck yeah it's a word. Look it up.
