I’m very absent minded — I’m always contemplating all these brilliant thoughts, like when I’m walking down the street thinking: “Gee I wonder what she’s thinking or he’s thinking,” while the other zombies are probably thinking: “I wonder what he (me) is thinking” . . . and then I think that we could all be walking around just thinking: “I wonder what everyone else is thinking about,” and then, if you think about it, no one would be thinking about anything at all for we all are simply thinking that other people are thinking, which isn’t really thinking; and what good is all this thinking about thinking if no one is thinking anyway? — which always inevitably leads me to do things like: the time I went on a bowling trip with my 9th grade class, bowled a 96 — if I tried, I told them, I certainly would have been over a 100 — and then came back to school to have some Sherlock point out that my shoes looked a bit funny.
Well, as I sat in the secretaries’ office waiting for my mom, who again had to ditch work to pick up her darling of a son, with the faculty ridiculing me — to say nothing of those puerile delinquents called peers — I began to wonder why we had to wear bowling shoes in the first place. It makes no sense if you really think about it. In fact, after serious contemplation, I’ve come to the conclusion that bowling alleys and those tough actin tenactin guys are in cahoots. That’s it. What else can it be?
But hey, talk about a brilliant way to get out of class. Though, I freely admit, I would have much rather slept through my French class, as that snob would have went off on one more of her tirades about the hoi polloi, then to hear another one of those parental middle school lectures — you know the ones, those that always start with: If you can’t do something as elementary as yatta yatta, then your whole life is going down the yatta yatta, (and never fail to conclude with), you’ll end up like your old man who’s a yatta yatta. Yes yes, as if my whole life is in jeopardy because I’m busy tying to solve the mysteries of modern life, while the rest of the world is on autopilot.
I told you once, and I’ll tell you again, to keep track of one’s shoes is too heavy a burden to bear for one who must keep track of the absurdities that surround daily existence. Alright, so maybe that’s what I wanted to say. You just can’t win with those stubborn parents – only waking up in the morning earns you a lecture. And man oh man, what about that fat fool at the bowling alley, with the ridiculous smirk on his face—common! You work in a bowling alley buddy! Like I’m sure no one ever goes home in the wrong shoes. Sure sure . . . and half of the psychology department isn’t gay.
i really cnt think of anything as stupid and gross as drinking your own semen… did you know semen helps you lose weight? Thats right all you weight watching fitness addicts… suck my cock and lose weight!!! Fun for all…(strictly females only unless you are a horny robot)
It was hilarious… the bus was like a granny trap, we pressed the buton for her eventually and set her free into the wilderness