It don't mean a thing...
So yesterday after I got home from my cross country meet I vowed to be social and go to the football game. I shower up, and since I have plenty of time to kill, I hop in a chair and chillax (yes, I just used "chillax"). And then the next moment I wake up at 1:30 in my bed somehow. Sweet. In the morning, I jump in my smelly Civic (I think it smells of boys' locker room and In n' Out) with my mom and drive up to La Jolla for a 4 hr Princeton Review practice SAT. My mom, bless her heart, is a crappy co-pilot/navigator (Switch lanes! Oh crap, you should've stayed in that one. Oh wait, you need to go back). I'm driving up alone tomorrow. Anyway, talking to some kids from RB and hearing their laughs when I mention I'm from Fallbrook was the first obvious hint I received in regards to the football game's outcome last night. Aw. Anyway, 4 hr exam ensues, the moderator is some college kid who looks bored as hell. Finally, his alterior motives for proctoring come out as he asks if anybody wants to get interviewed afterward for a college film he was shooting. Nobody does it, so I feel kind of bad for him so I volunteer. He looks relieved that he didn't spend his 4 hrs in vain, so he thanks me and says he's just going to ask me two simple questions. Not thinking too much about that since my brain was in a light comatose after the SAT's, I agree with it. First question: What happens after you die? Second question: What is the purpose of life?
Whoosh. Does anybody out there want to take a stab at them?
Whoosh. Does anybody out there want to take a stab at them?