So there's an audio intern here named Heidi. She is from San Diego. Young, blonde, pretty. I had high hopes that she would represent the California badge proudly. But then I was sitting in French Quarter earlier this afternoon as she had a Skype conversation with her boyfriend (I assume because the gentleman on her computer screen was shirtless) whining like a little betch about how terrible it was here in the mountains.
First it was because it was boring:
"Yeah, I have like nothing going on today. There's no concert so I don't have to work. ...What are you doing? ...Oh cool. ...I'm just going to tan today."
And then it was because she has TOO much to do:
"Oh. Mygod. I hate you. Like you have no idea how bad I want to just sit in Star*ucks and do nothing all day..."
And then she pulled this irritating jibber jabber out of her ass:
"Time moves SO slow here. Like a day feels like two days. I mean, like time LITERALLY moves slower here."
At which point I packed up my stuff and left French Quarter because I will not stand for improper usage of the word "literally." NO MA'AM! Seriously. Where are we? Outer space? Are the mountains of Western North Carolina at an elevation of twenty thousand miles? Because, yes. Then time will literally move slower.
In other news: iPhone pictures!
The music center is raffling off a brand new BMW at the end of summer. It will be mine. IT MUST BE MINE. Tickets are $100 each and they are only selling 1500 tickets. One in fifteen hundred are decent odds, right? I mean, I can sacrifice 3% of my summer pay for the chance to win this beautiful machine. All I can say is it better not go to some filthy rich old couple who already own like three Lexuses.
Here's another picture of my future car. Isn't she pretty? After I win her, I plan on driving her for about 6 months just to have some fun and then I will sell her, buy a nice Mazda or something and pocket the balance. Aren't I smart? Also: I may or may not have taken this picture while sitting in the back of the lawn during a performance of Rachmaninoff's Second Symphony.
Did you know that they make mesquite-smoked beer? They do. Oh, South. One of the students offered this to me in French Quarter the other night. You know what would go well with mesquite-smoked beer? Rib-flavored potato chips, that's what. Payday in three days woot woot woot!
The other day, Dan and I were out shopping for games and supplies to put in French Quarter and we started fantasizing about all the things we wanted to buy with our business account. For example, like this NERF sword. In order to keep the opera singers in check. The only thing that would make it better? IF IT WERE NOT NERF.
Also: this NERF ball shooter. Only I would fill it with golf balls instead.
Yesterday at dinner in the cafeteria, they served ribs. Not rib-shaped meat, but actual ribs. (Verdict: Rib-shaped meat wins!) Across at the next table I watched for a few minutes as this cute little pipsqueaky Asian high school kid kept trying to cut his ribs with a butter knife. It was pure torture. So I took a picture. And then I asked Misha the Russian Monopoly Playa (you can see his right shoulder and arm in the orange shirt) to go get him a proper steak knife from the utensils cart. Cafeteria ribs with a butter knife? Really?
You know what's even more terrifying than Asian-meat craving bears and sociopath hillbillies? Mountain spiders, that's what. Look at this beast! I saw this monster the other day on Andante Lane as I was walking with Maggie, one of our RAs. It was probably the size of a silver dollar. We just sat and looked at it for about a minute contemplating what to do with it since there is a dangerous type of spider in this area called the Brown Recluse. Me: "Maybe we should just let it go. It probably won't hurt anybody." Maggie: "But what if it has babies?" Me: "Ugh, you're right. But I don't want to squish it!" So we just stood around and squealed like little girls for about five minutes while a crowd gathered around. Finally, one of the guys in the opera company (one of the less obnoxious ones) finally smooshed it with his foot. RIP Potentially Deadly Gigantic Hairy Spider. May the very audible squoosh of your bodily juices not haunt me in my nightmares for all eternity.
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