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“It Seems We Have a Contractor Stuck Between the Walls”

It is true. In the space of wall between the our laundry room and the living room, a man has been encased within the sheet rock and left to die. How do we know? Because every -:38 his watch beeps. I use that little muffled beep as my get-your-butt-to-the-bus-stop cue, so I’m kind of glad he’s there, but at the same time, I’ve been having these really weird dreams lately regarding a man in a yellow hat.

My not-gay roommate has dubbed him “Bob” after Bob the builder, but I wish he didn’t. Once you name them, they’re harder to get rid of.

And You’re Wondering, “What the Fuck Happened?”

Poptarts!

So I got a little behind. Is the vlog coming? Yes. Hold to your tea cozies just a step further. Because you had to wait so long, I’m making this film especially amazing.

Literally Speaking will resume normal operation* shortly.

*”Normal” implying that perhaps this blog has, at one time, operated normally.

A Short Meeting

There is a shortcut that other students had made through the yellow lawn to get to Starbucks on the first floor. I watched him carefully keep to the sidewalk until he vanished from my vantage on the third floor. I was glad he didn’t walk in the grass, reducing the stems to muddy stubbles as so many had done before him. He stood out as a beam of unannounced confidence and I closed my French book to get some coffee.

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

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My favorite part about Christmastime is the snow. Granted, snow isn’t always guaranteed, but it usually shows up with a few weeks to spare. Suddenly everything is a painting, with cute little houses burning like woodstoves on the inside and trees weighed down with icicles.
My least favorite part about Christmas is the green-and-red combination. This isn’t a smart fashion choice. Red and green and white? Just… stop. Actually (though the aforementioned is annoying and should be taken semi-seriously) my least favorite part are those stupid blow-up figurines in people’s yard. I mean, why take the trouble of rolling three large boulders of snow descending in size, finding a carrot and buttons for a “snowman” when all you really need is an air pump and a trip to Walmart for a perfectly porportioned Frosty? Why take the time or effort? Well you know what? Snowmen are supposed to be fun. They aren’t decorations… they’re memories. So here’s to the snowman balloons for singlehandedly obliverating memories and turning front yards into car dealerships. Fuck you.
a) Most disturbing thing ever seen: a balloon-nativity set, in which Mary was deflating and kind of looked like she was giving baby Jesus a blow job.
My younger sister Jessica summed up secure-lized Christmas pretty well after one strenuous afternoon of shopping (in which I managed one purchase and she had a present for every member of the family, as well as several extended members whom we aren’t quite sure how they’re related, her co-workers, the librarian, and carolers who might drop by). She said, “Christmas is not about receiving. It is about giving. Although we do receive, and receive it gladly.”
My second least favorite part is the moment at the Christmas party when you’re picking about the food and the host notices you’re bypassing the meat and says loudly, “YOU VEGETARIAN?” So then you know, you nod… nicely at first, than apologetically as her eyes narrow. “WHY?” She demands. Not wanting to start a nutritional, ethical and psychological debate, you say something like, “It doesn’t agree with me,” or “I need to still fit in my evening gown for New Years Eve. It was very expensive.” But it’s too late. Everyone within a 50-foot radius wants to talk about your lifestyle choices and how you can possibly live with yourself everyday.
All in all though, it’s been pleasant. There’s enough chocolate about to make a balloon out of me and The Bird and the Bee’s “Carol of the Bells” takes at least twelve days to worship thoroughly.

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