I know it’s in poor taste to complain. I know it’s not usually the most exciting topic.
But I haven’t posted in awhile, and I feel thoroughly irked by the weather Gods.
Let’s begin, shall we?
I wake up this morning and stare blankly at the overcast skies outside my window.By the time I leave Cromwell, it is misting lightly. By the time I finish breakfast, raindrops are beating against my synthetic hood.0
Fast forward an hour and a half, the skies have opened up as I leave chemistry. I return to Cromwell 10 minutes later after having skirted around the minefields of puddles. My jacket gets shaken out, leaving a temporary mess in the stairwell, and I return to my room to be pestered by Michelle (“Smith”).
Lunch was an amusing affair… Apparently, Eickhoff’s idea of buffalo chicken involves stringy bits of poultry and liberal applications of Tabasco sauce. The pasta was fair and I was pleasantly surprised to find that the zucchini was more than a pile of green poker chips.
Following that fun endeavour, I made the short hop to the science complex for Calc. I am quickly losing hope for the class after watching the class quickly losing the lesson. I myself was terribly befuddled by my professor’s attempts to impart knowledge of trigonometric substitution.
Come 2 o’clock, the raindrops have slimmed down somewhat, but the wind has picked up significantly. I am convinced that the wind always blows in your face no matter what. Murphy loves me. After walking back to Cromwell like a depressed person, staring at the ground the whole time (lest the tiny raindrop javelins impale my face), I return to the lovely linoleum floors and temperate climate control that are the dorms. Following a second instance of canine-esque jacket drying in the stairwell, I converse with Boris about how weird it would be if the sky started raining babies.
And so after that fetal tangent, I find myself here, typing (not really, Michelle’s stolen my keyboard, insisting on performing secretarial duties). I have no more will left to leave this sanctuary of cinder block to face that aqueous war zone that I see out my window. Maybe it will be better by the time dinner comes… I hear the clam chowder is tolerable. Oh well, whatever, I’m done.
OK, um, he’s done, and uh… yay? I think he stinks at complaining. This was more like a recap. A complainer can tell the difference. =P
*Annoyed at Michelle.*