(no subject)
Matt wrote me a narrative on the orange he won in study hall from our teacher because he knew I desperately wanted it...READ
As I begin to unwind in the all too comfortably familiar black swivel-chair in front of the computer, I fumble across that orange I had won from putting up the closest estimate of my study hall teacher's weight. I guess I should feel accomplished, but, for some strange reason, it hasn't given me much pride. Hmmph.
Mr. Scheck's sarcastic warning "Have fun peeling it, though" slowly but surely, becomes vindicated, as I spend 10 blissful minutes unearthing its heavenly insides. Once that is finished, I can't help but feel contempt toward the layer of white skin still left over, thankfully thin in some areas and thoroughly thick in others, opaquely shielding from my view what I know to be majestically-vibrantly-splendiferously - orange.
Fully determined to be left with a purely orange orange, (and the idea of taking a picture and sending it to you crossed my mind) I begin the tedious task of scraping away the mossy-looking white enemy with a seriously serrated steak knife. Halfway through, and after accidentally procuring too much of the orange's much coveted core along the way, I completely lose interest, and begin the (also) tedious task of slicing the orange up (my mom had always done that part for me).
Being a virgin orange slicer-upper proved to be quite detrimental, as apparently it is accepted that only graduates of the most highly regarded culinary arts schools can perform orange slicing properly. I contend that a warning should be placed on all oranges informing the consumer of the possible dangers and aggravations involved with reducing the fruit to its most deliciously edible form.
Which brings me to my next point: sex. No, I've never had it, but from what I hear I'm sure it's almost as good as this orange.
As I begin to unwind in the all too comfortably familiar black swivel-chair in front of the computer, I fumble across that orange I had won from putting up the closest estimate of my study hall teacher's weight. I guess I should feel accomplished, but, for some strange reason, it hasn't given me much pride. Hmmph.
Mr. Scheck's sarcastic warning "Have fun peeling it, though" slowly but surely, becomes vindicated, as I spend 10 blissful minutes unearthing its heavenly insides. Once that is finished, I can't help but feel contempt toward the layer of white skin still left over, thankfully thin in some areas and thoroughly thick in others, opaquely shielding from my view what I know to be majestically-vibrantly-splendiferously - orange.
Fully determined to be left with a purely orange orange, (and the idea of taking a picture and sending it to you crossed my mind) I begin the tedious task of scraping away the mossy-looking white enemy with a seriously serrated steak knife. Halfway through, and after accidentally procuring too much of the orange's much coveted core along the way, I completely lose interest, and begin the (also) tedious task of slicing the orange up (my mom had always done that part for me).
Being a virgin orange slicer-upper proved to be quite detrimental, as apparently it is accepted that only graduates of the most highly regarded culinary arts schools can perform orange slicing properly. I contend that a warning should be placed on all oranges informing the consumer of the possible dangers and aggravations involved with reducing the fruit to its most deliciously edible form.
Which brings me to my next point: sex. No, I've never had it, but from what I hear I'm sure it's almost as good as this orange.