Any of the managers at American Eagle SoHo (flagship store…#81) and my high school chorus teacher, Mrs. Watts, will tell you that it’s hard to shut me up. I’m 24 years old and I still get fussed at for talking too much (it’s Kenny’s fault I promise). Yet the moment I decide to be a writer, I suddenly have nothing to say. What have I done, after all, in my short and sheltered life that would be worth anyone’s reading time?
But if you really want to know, here’s a peek under my short and shelter:
I’m angry with my cell phone company. They are the devil (collectively), comparable to the man in the Bible who was possessed by the demons. He said to call him Legion because he was many. Negativity’s not really my forte, though, so moving on. They know who they are anyway. I wrote them a letter. They never responded. Satan.
I’m in love. An ode will probably follow at some point. For now, wait for me Bobby. I’m coming home soon.
Picasso’s Men w/Horns pulled out a big one last night. They needed it after the last Upset (note the capital “U”). It was genius. They slaughtered Columbia’s third string JV intramural team. Beautiful. Just gorgeous. The Deuce took it up while the Cake Man did some fancy footwork. Sir Phatty rocked the ice up and down, and Hyun took it to the net repeatedly, leaving the Keep in devastated anguish. Meanwhile, Mostly Mikely was bored out of his gourd, not even working up a sweat, and by the time it was 9-0, nobody really cared any more when we scored. Megan and I clapped lightly in a golf-like manner in the midst of our language dork conversation and discussion of Jesus (who is Jesus, and he knows it).