Marry a share of pole fuzz
I like Maria Sharapova. I may have to become a tennis fan.
For the past few months I've been shaken by the enduring urge to buy a van and drive around for the summer, a roving field reporter for the SoK. Alternately willing my facial hair to liberation with each passing mile and pausing to camp in the forest or run around the beach, I would undoubtedly "achieve the inspirational levels of performance" trumpeted by Hewlett Packard CEO Carly Fiorina in a partiuclarly rousing speech.
On this trip, I would listen only to the new Sonic Youth and Wilco albums while driving, continually mouthing "riding alone, town after town, toll after toll a fixed bayonet through the great southwest". When in the forest, I would listen to side B of the Animal Collective lp. When on the beach, I would listen to nothing.
Perhaps on the occasional Monday night I would coordinate my dinner with Fox's "The North Shore."
Perhaps I would just skip the meal, my appetite destroyed by Star Magazine's recent revelation that Mary Kate Olsen is in rehab for cocaine and not anorexia.
I would watch Maria Sharapova play in the Finals of Wimbledon in a Masonic Lodge somewhere outside of Pittsburgh. Maybe I would go to Jester's house instead because it would be close by and I know he enjoys watching tennis and drinking beer.
For the past few months I've been shaken by the enduring urge to buy a van and drive around for the summer, a roving field reporter for the SoK. Alternately willing my facial hair to liberation with each passing mile and pausing to camp in the forest or run around the beach, I would undoubtedly "achieve the inspirational levels of performance" trumpeted by Hewlett Packard CEO Carly Fiorina in a partiuclarly rousing speech.
On this trip, I would listen only to the new Sonic Youth and Wilco albums while driving, continually mouthing "riding alone, town after town, toll after toll a fixed bayonet through the great southwest". When in the forest, I would listen to side B of the Animal Collective lp. When on the beach, I would listen to nothing.
Perhaps on the occasional Monday night I would coordinate my dinner with Fox's "The North Shore."
Perhaps I would just skip the meal, my appetite destroyed by Star Magazine's recent revelation that Mary Kate Olsen is in rehab for cocaine and not anorexia.
I would watch Maria Sharapova play in the Finals of Wimbledon in a Masonic Lodge somewhere outside of Pittsburgh. Maybe I would go to Jester's house instead because it would be close by and I know he enjoys watching tennis and drinking beer.
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