My bed is a loft that one of the former brothers had built for himself. It's more than ten feet tall, and I'm an ass-in-the-air, let-the-limbs-fall-where-they-may sort of sleeper. The good news is, he's also built a rickety ladder to go with it. The only thing missing is my phenomenal lack of coordination that can only be described as God's
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It's the snails. It must be the snails.
Of course, the Bud Light doesn't go a long wat toward proving that sugar and spice mean anything, either.
Eww.
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And seriously, Bud Light. So gross. 'Course I have yet to develop a taste for beer of any sort aside from the fruity ones that don't taste like beer.
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Boys are icky.
Men aren't.
Eventually we grow out of it if we have half a brain and half a heart.
If he's still icky at 30, he's still a boy.
I'm not icky!
:)
There is a sign above my door on the outside that reads, "Ladies." I always wondered about why on earth such a sign would be on a frat brother's door.
A party is going on downstairs tonight. Featherweight girls are getting drunk off of Bud Light. Featherweight girls are stumbling into my room, thinking that it's the ladies' room. I think we've solved our mystery. Sitting up here near the ceiling, I do feel rather like a spider lying in wait for the next disgusting morsel of mind-numbingly dippy prey.
That's creepy!
*HUGS ( ... )
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Oh, and thank you for your kind words. Snippets of brilliance, yes :)
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