Andrew A. White
I no longer know what to believe in. One day, glorious winter is upon us, sheathing us in a cold white burrito wrap and masking the falseness that lies beneath in the austere perfection of thinglessness. Rarely has my heart been as thrilled as when I saw the world reduced to this.
I took a perverse joy in making my friends’ parents uncomfortable, explaining in more detail than they wanted how my job had me cleaning up fake body fluids and fetching dildos from the storeroom whenever they asked about my “interesting” work.
Dear “Dear Readers” Readers, I have a confession to make.
Happy Halloween, 11.5 months belated.
I’d stay home and babysit my sister while mother would go off and sweat on sad middle-aged men who weren’t my father. The sweat would bead like rain drops on a car window.
This week in last week’s weather, prose about the weather from last week, read to the tune of a Radiohead song.
This week in last week’s weather, we talk about the weather from last week: A real meteorologist predicted that this week’s weather would be “mostly pleasant.”
Aggregate score: 7.9 ½ out of 10.
Let’s just get us a brewski, down that shit in one, get another, down that shit in one, and then down the third with some super chill Mario Kart.
Every good news source needs a good weather team.
Kappa Kappa Gamma President: Hey girls! Let’s get sta- Room: WOOOOO!