Today I saw two spiders, one in my car and one on the wall. One was red and the other was brown. How much space is alotted here? Dude, this could be t
Ah, it is here: Tim's post! I hear your collective sigh of relief and gratitude, a release of tension and worry, and an intake of joy. How you missed my insight, my masterful wordplay, and my creepily familiar references to sexual deviance. Who will make love to your brain?
I will.
I will.
. . .
Just received an urgent dispatch from the deepest recesses of my mind. Was it a reminder to study for the impending GRE, on the 13th? No, it was a sense memory. It occurred in my throat, where I'd just swallowed the remains of a Stork Chocolate Riesen that was lobbed at my head earlier in the day. It was a burning memory, real burning, and stanky, with the flavor of old potatoes. And then I remembered: this is the taste of a shot of Hawkeye vodka! I was 19 again, sitting around a table in Andy Mullen's house. And I wanted to go back. But then I realized that this was like being nostalgic for high school gym. What the hell was I thinking?
. . .
As I exited 235 today I looked up and saw a spider on the windshield. He was small, but thankfully on the outside of the windshield. But no, he was not; that fucker had tricked me with his powers of hallucination! I groped around, considered smashing him with the iPod, and then elected to use a paperback copy of the Bell Jar instead. Thank you, Sylvia Plath. At least your shitty prose was finally good for something.
No, I'm kidding. I haven't even read the book yet but I have great, almost Dickensian, expectations (even though the cover is now smeared with spider innards [and outards]). I have read some of her poems and, contrary to Goathead's opinion, they are excellent. Never mind that I am not a poet and he is. Never mind that at all.
The other spider was the color of Andy's old red car. I'm serious. It was on the white wall in the hallway here in the Parker building, and I saw it on my way to the bathroom. Damn, this thing was…bigger than a quarter, probably, legs included, the size of a half dollar or bigger. And so bright! It looked like a wasp with eight legs, really. I fetched my camera and got blurry shots before my colleague dispatched it with her sandal.
. . .
Weekly Espionage Update:The Czech spy was just in the bathroom again, his shiny head dripping with water, rubbing his hands along his eyes and breathing in the manner of a man who just swallowed the cyanide pill instead of the secret note.
I will.
I will.
. . .
Just received an urgent dispatch from the deepest recesses of my mind. Was it a reminder to study for the impending GRE, on the 13th? No, it was a sense memory. It occurred in my throat, where I'd just swallowed the remains of a Stork Chocolate Riesen that was lobbed at my head earlier in the day. It was a burning memory, real burning, and stanky, with the flavor of old potatoes. And then I remembered: this is the taste of a shot of Hawkeye vodka! I was 19 again, sitting around a table in Andy Mullen's house. And I wanted to go back. But then I realized that this was like being nostalgic for high school gym. What the hell was I thinking?
. . .
As I exited 235 today I looked up and saw a spider on the windshield. He was small, but thankfully on the outside of the windshield. But no, he was not; that fucker had tricked me with his powers of hallucination! I groped around, considered smashing him with the iPod, and then elected to use a paperback copy of the Bell Jar instead. Thank you, Sylvia Plath. At least your shitty prose was finally good for something.
No, I'm kidding. I haven't even read the book yet but I have great, almost Dickensian, expectations (even though the cover is now smeared with spider innards [and outards]). I have read some of her poems and, contrary to Goathead's opinion, they are excellent. Never mind that I am not a poet and he is. Never mind that at all.
The other spider was the color of Andy's old red car. I'm serious. It was on the white wall in the hallway here in the Parker building, and I saw it on my way to the bathroom. Damn, this thing was…bigger than a quarter, probably, legs included, the size of a half dollar or bigger. And so bright! It looked like a wasp with eight legs, really. I fetched my camera and got blurry shots before my colleague dispatched it with her sandal.
. . .
Weekly Espionage Update:The Czech spy was just in the bathroom again, his shiny head dripping with water, rubbing his hands along his eyes and breathing in the manner of a man who just swallowed the cyanide pill instead of the secret note.
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