roboppy.net

I moved out about half my junk out of my dorm today. Dude, crap is everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Where? EVERYWHERE! There? Yes. Here? Yes. HERE here? Yes yes. THERE there? No. ...wait, yes!

The problem with having a large room is that you have more room to store crap. Last year I lived in a shoebox yet I STILL HAD A LOT OF CRAP! Consumerism is bad, kiddies. I had three huge Duane Reade bags filled with books. Does Robyn read? Not really. WHERE DID THESE BOOKS COME FROM? They popped out of nowhere like demon book babies spurted forth by the bookcase. That made no sense, but that's all I could come up with. DEMONS!

...ah well, a relatively painless trip back home and now all my bags of crap are sitting in the front hallway. This is only half of my stuff but I think it's the heaviest stuff. Flattened trea pulp is heavy. Hm. However, over time I realized how much stuff I still had in my room: my scanner, all my kitchen stuff (not a whole lot though), my printer, my lamp (I guess I can chuck it though; oh, the marriage of consumerism and waste), my bedding, and TWO GUITARS AND A LAP HARP. I kept telling myself to bring back the harp and one guitar but I completely forgot. Oh, and my drum machine, not that that takes up a lot of space. And my little keyboard. And my external hard drive. And. Um. Other crap. God dammit.

If only I could just live in an apartment! This might become a reality in the next year though if my brother gets a Wall Street job. YES, SOMEONE HIRE MY BROTHER! Is he qualified to do anything? PROBABLY NOT! But he did graduate college! Sweet! Just like millions of other people! In two years I'll get to enter this pool of semi-qualified adults with no direction. Oh boy oh boy. Children rejoice in the streets at my misfortune.

I went to Jim Hanley's Universe today with Diana (meaning that I walked from Water Street to 33rd Street, sweet) and staring at the small self-published comics section implanted a tiny seed of creativity in me. And by that I mean I got the urge to draw crappy bunnies, slap em on paper and mock the world by charing them $1-$2 for undeveloped plots and drawings akin to those done by a 3 year old in epileptic shock (no offense to those 3 year olds who may be reading this right now whilst in epileptic shock).

On a more serious note, I have a good life. I thought I almost failed my food management theory final but I somehow got an A. Maybe my test was mistaken for someone else's. Hm. I squeezed by with a 90% for the year. I SQUEEZED, OH HOW I SQUEEZED! I squeezed the life out of that class like juicing every last bit out of an orange. And then I watched it scream as the pulpy bits plopped out. "Noo leave me be in the orange, leave me...eeameeh...*plop*."

God, I'm weird. I'm signing off.