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| Hello everyone, I'm on Guam again. I've moved once again, and I'll be here 6 months. To be honest with you, my indomitable writers spirit has been waning, and we'll have to see if I keep up this Xanga stuff. I might just to keep up with Kevin and BP, but we'll see. Later guys! | | |
| I suppose you want an explanation for my absence? At the risk of being rude, I have serendipitously decided another route for this, my first “comeback” post. With implications so grave, I must ask the reader to openly and candidly ascertain the truth relative yourself and confer the vibrant discoveries to me, nestling them comfortably in the comment section I have benevolently provided.
Having been asked for an “awesome” post, I must confess that I am only a man; a man that cares about truth. I am uncertain if I can provide the “awesome” post requested, but I vow that we will all learn something profound, something fundamental on this, the day of my xanga comeback.
Wendy’s puts the straw in the bag, and everywhere else gives you the straw with the cup. Which is better?
I will attempt to convey my disputing thoughts and ask for either judgment on them, or allegations in addition to.
Question today: Wendy’s puts the straw and all the utensils in the bag, most places hand it with the items, compare and contrast the advantages and disadvantages of both ways.
It is a hot day, and hunger pangs ravish your stomach. It’s been a long time since you’ve been off this long, hard road. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a smiling face. It is time to get some fast food. Exit 95A calls like a siren promising a sign full of establishments ready to provide comfort and aid. Heeding their call, you allow yourself to fall victim to American capitalism. Before the window sits your car, your parched throat screaming for the beverage you anxiously wait. The window opens; a high school freshman with 1,000 pimples produces the object of your desire.
Tantalizing you with the drink, you must wait until the man is paid before the beverage is dispensed. At long last, the drink is in your hand! But wait… where is the straw? Oh, on this day of days they have forgotten a straw! Oh no! You can’t suck out of the top of this lid for very long, the beverage is soon to low, even when you push your face on the lid really hard! Just when you didn’t think you could take any more, the pimple man produces a bag of food. Immediately searching the bag for the ability to rectify any errors that may have been made you see your straw, hiding in the corner. Oh the straw! Hold aloft its cylindrical body; rejoice in its tube-like frame!
I’ll have to finish this persuasive essay in another post, as this is getting long. Stay tuned, I’m back my friends.
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| Dear all,
It is with a humble heart that I ask you to please bear with me, as I am quite busy and have not posted for a bit. I'm better now, no more medicine, no more hives (I might write a post about that) and hopefully I will update before the week is out! God bless.
-Matt
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| My temprature the last 2 days has been 103.5. Try as I might to be stubborn, I think I gotta let mom take me to the doc. Blast.
-Matt
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| Ahh, camp. I was gone for a good long while. Without internet, I discovered I am a hollow shell of a man, incapable of sentences that don’s start with “If I had Internet access…” Good things happened at camp however, but rather than tell you one of the many exploits there, I would like to complain of an event that transpired en route to said camp.
Being a large man, it is required of me at random intervals to pay homage at the shrine of Dairy Queen in the form of downing a cookie dough Blizzard. The time was at hand, thus I began my pilgrimage. One sale were small and medium Blizzards. I scoffed at the man who could only handle the “chicken sizes” and boldly ordered a large. My delight was handed to me not 2 minutes later by a surly woman who shared both my affinity towards large stomachs as well as facial hair.
Grasping the spoon by the hilt, I held it aloft over my head and in a triumphant voice cried, “Yum!” Giddy with anticipation, I slipped the spoon into the ice cream and pulled out white ice cream. “What? What is this?!” My mouth gaped in shock and disgust. “Why is this ice cream white? Oh, the calamity, the horror!” My ice cream was white, not brown.
For those of you who do not share my devotedness to a Blizzard, a key ingredient is hot fudge mixed in with the white ice cream, thus transforming the vanilla ice cream into the thing of legends. Mine was not the all-holy experience I had sought after, but rather a very scientologist experience. I mean it’s cool and all, but I want to touch my newborn.
Taking the brown out of things is not good. Imagine going to the new Samuel L. Jackson movie and instead of seeing the man ply his trade, you saw John Candy in his underwear. It just isn’t the same. Such was my Blizzard. I wanted to share that traumatizing experience with you, in hopes that certificates for Blizzards would soon fill my mailbox to be cashed in for Blizzards soon filling my belly. Good day.
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