April 23, 2006

I have great stories to write, but I am so tired. Writing is such work to me, and I feel the stress of it pile on top of my already-burdened shoulders before I even begin typing. Why is that? Why does it have to be so hard for me to do?

Tonight, after spending most of the day at school working on the literary magazine, I went up north to that lovely theater (I forget its name) to watch a movie. That's the short of it. Here's the long.

For some reason, today really took a toll on me. I was proofreading essays for most of the day, and my eyes ached as well as my neck and back when all was said and done. I got home around 5:30, and I had about an hour and a half before Dan and Carly were supposed to come. I ate dinner, fast-food AGAIN, and waited for their arrival by speeding through some DVR'd television. I have this giant jar of sourdough pretzels that I bought at Wal-Mart. They aren't really that good, to be honest. They are dry, but I eat them when I am grading or bored, and it gives me something to do. Well, tonight, right as Dan arrived, I decided that I was going to try dipping them in peanut butter to see if it was a good combo. I grabbed the peanut butter out of my cabinet, took the giant jug of pretzels, and we headed up to Carmel.

When I stuck the pretzel in the peanut butter, I noticed that the texture was a little off. It was a bit more like clay than the normal gooey peanut-buttery goodness I have come to love. Nevertheless, I stupidly persevered. When the pretzel hit my mouth, an explosion of rank went off in my mouth like nothing I have ever tasted. Literally, I didn't know what to do. I was eating toxic waste, and I felt like my mouth was twisting over itself. As I choked and whined with a mouth full of half-chewed pretzel, Carly and Dan laughed hysterically at my convulsions. Dan rolled down the window, so that I could spit out the food, but the weight of it was so dense, seemingly doubling with every second, making it nearly impossible for me to successfully spit it out of the car. I tried. Most of the chunks landed between my shoulder and the door; I removed them by hand. I am sure this gesture has resulted in numerous animal deaths since 7pm as they have unknowingly crawled across Meridian, excited to find some tasty nuggets along their way, only to be surprised by the metallic slices of wool and cardboard all wrapped up in a sulfuric bow hiding themselves as chewed pretzel and peanut-butter.

Dan gave me gum. I drank some bitter lemonade. I looked at the date on the peanut butter jar.

Sell by April 23, 2006.

Whoops.

(PS. There is more to this story because I really want to talk about the movie we saw, but I am super tired, and if I write more, I am afraid I will just ramble incoherently. Well, more so than normal.)