Poverty

One of my worst fears came true today. I have no money to my name. I’ve spent it all on clothes, food, local attractions, and crappy nightclubs. When the ATM made that horrible beeping sound as the screen said “insufficient funds” I felt a pang of guilt and panic. My parents and relatives have been pouring money into my bank account so I can have the time of my life and I’ve gone and spent it all like a madman. What’s worse is that I’ll have to keep asking for it. Eventually, the money on my tube card will run out, the food in the fridge will run out if it doesn’t go bad, and eventually I’ll have to pay to wash my clothes at the nearest laundry service. The walk back to my dorm was a blur of defeat and helplessness.

I blinked the panicked glaze from my eyes for a second and saw a homeless man sitting outside Whole Foods. That’s when it hit me: So THIS is why people have jobs! It’s all so clear now; if you don’t have a JOB, you’ll end up with nothing and your only form of shelter from rain will be your three-foot long toenails, and that’s only if you’re really flexible. I started thinking of ways that I could make money under the table. Then I remembered I’ll be working at my internship eight hours a day, five days a week. Would I be willing to break my visa contract and give up one of my days off for money? Considering my strong aversion to toenails, I’m definitely considering it.

So, a word to those who have yet to study abroad: conserve your money. Have fun, and get out there to see as much as you can, but don’t go crazy. It’s a bother to discipline yourself by choosing to sit some things out but it’s a worse feeling to not even have the choice at all. Ultimately, it’s not your money you’re spending; it’s your parents’, or guardians’ – the people who are actually making a living. This may not be the case for everyone, but who between the ages of 19 and 21 can afford the ridiculous amount of money it costs to study abroad? If you can, great, if you can’t, join the club, we call ourselves “The General Public” – we have jackets and meet every Tuesday for coffee and sponge cake.

For The Anxiously Separated

When I first got to England, I suffered from severe separation anxiety; you don’t know what it’s like to not be able to buy your favorite moisturizer for six weeks. It’s just cruel. I’ve also really been missing my friends and family. Being so far away from them all makes it seem like they either A) don’t exist, B) are in another universe, or C) have forgotten that I exist period. This pattern of thought goes back as far to my childhood. If you can believe it, it was far more dramatic back then, so at least I’m maturing slowly rather than not at all.

Any way, before I left the States, it didn’t dawn on me that I’ve never actually left home. I went off to school, sure, but if I wanted to visit home I just had to get in the car and drive for an hour. It was like I never left! I remember my first trip home after settling in on campus. I pulled into the driveway of my dad’s house around the beginning of September with one of my best friends from school, Caroline. He leaned out of the front door and said, “Is it Thanksgiving already?”

It had been less than a week since I said heartfelt goodbyes to my family before I came crawling back to them. As time went on I got better at not wanting my mommy and daddy, but I don’t think living an hour away from home was enough to prepare me for the big leap across the pond. In the last six weeks, my nights have been peppered with weird-ass dreams, the latest involving melting children. According to my roommates I’ve been doing a lot of “sleep-shouting” which has involved some key phrases such as “ONE TWO THREE FOUR! ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” And, in the voice of Gollum, “More light… MORE LIGHT!” Some other time I was yelling so loudly that everyone in the kitchen could hear me. Luckily they’ve been patient with me and haven’t called an exorcist, much like I would have done twelve times by now were I in their shoes.

Needless to say, I’ve been missing home and it’s had a big enough affect to penetrate my subconscious mind. Mostly, the stress has manifested itself in a serious fear that everyone I know and love at home will die and I’ll have missed the last days of their lives. Extreme, I know, but I can’t help it. I’m a performer at heart and if I don’t dramatize at least one thing every other hour I’ll turn into super-dramatic Sam. And that ain’t pretty, it’s actually really obnoxious, so I’ve been informed. But there is a good ending. Last night whilst, obsessively trying to distract my brain from imagining my family dying in a velociraptor zombie apocalypse, I read about a thousand posts of an extremely funny blog called, Hyperbole and a Half. Within it I read about seeing love as “stretchy.”

I would be injured deeply if I lost someone near my heart, but Allie Brosh helped me find some light in the loss of a loved one. She writes about the five stages of grief and how throughout that process, you feel like your life has suffered a wound that will never heal. Trying to fill the void someone has left behind is wrong because it’s as if you are trying to replace that someone, so you can finally get on with your life. Brosh said there was a time after her pet rat, Isabelle, died, when she felt she would never love another pet the same way. But she said something else that emanated a beacon of light when I read it.

Love is wonderful in that it can never be wasted or used up. We can never replace the people or animals we have loved, but the love we feel for them can be expanded. I like to think of love as being stretchy. It is easy to feel guilty when you start to love a new pet - like somehow that means you love your old friend less. But when you think of love as being stretchy and able to expand, you can see that there will always be room for everything. You can love as much as you want.

I’m not, in any way, saying I can’t wait for everyone I care about to kick the bucket so I can get my love-stretch on, but I wanted to share it with you all because it brightened my spirits a great deal. Maybe when you’re feeling sad about how much it hurts to be away from the love of your life, your children, parents, best friends, and to know that even the dearest parts of life come to an end, you’ll be lifted like I was. Now if you’ll excuse me, Terry just put on “Country Grammar” and I have to get jiggy with it.

A big hug for you,

Sam

Every Day's a Struggle When You're Flat Captain

I'm beginning to understand why my mother felt the need to strike the fear of God in me in order to make me do my chores. Ever since I was granted the venerable role of Flat Captain, I've come to appreciate parents everywhere that don't resort to violence when their shit-head children disobey them. Okay, so my fellow residents aren't my children, but if I don't keep on their asses about keeping the kitchen clean, the flat will get fined, and that noise ain't goin' down.

I've held two meetings so far, each one focusing more or less on the same thing: Keep the kitchen clean so we don't get fined. Both meetings have been made in vein because the pile of dishes is growing into a small city of glass and ceramics - dirty glass and ceramics. For the life of me, I can't understand why these idiots don't wash their own dishes after they've finished stuffing their faces full of the food they just slopped all over the place. I'm pretty sure they all speak fluent English, but maybe others only understand moronese. I'll try and speak like a caveman or a gorilla the next time I hold a meeting.

My initial reaction to the dozens of dishes piling up on the counter was one of irrational violence. I imagined myself standing by the sink waiting for someone to not wash a dish after using it, and then striking a pressure point in their collar bone, rendering them partially paralyzed. Before the culprit's body repaired all of it's nerve damage, I'd have already duck-taped said culprit to the wall outside the kitchen door as a warning.

This is where I begin to appreciate the effort parents put in to raising their children without throwing them out of a window. It's frustrating enough to keep up with a bunch of young adults, never mind having to do it with a bunch of small children.

Before I went out to buy duct-tape and sign up for ninja classes, the rational side of my brain spoke up and convinced me to leave a stern note on top of the dishes instead. It read...

Dear Faraday Residents,

I've noticed that the pile of dishes has grown into a god-damned castle and I cannot ignore it. You are not infants, so wash your dishes EVERY. TIME. YOU. USE. THEM. I'm keeping an eye out and if I notice you left a dish dirty, I will find you and punch you in the throat.

Love,

Sam

Minutes after taping this to the highest tower on the scummiest plate of dish city, I became wary of what consequences awaited me if the cleaning ladies read it. I'm not sure what the punishment is for threatening to end someone's life via cobra-strike to the jugular, but I can't imagine it's soft. I went to my friend, Trish, and asked her opinion. Not surprisingly, she said it was good up until the throat punchy part. Damn. My fears were confirmed and now I had to think of a new note to leave.

Maybe it would go something like this,

CLEAN YOUR DISHES OR THE BRITISH POOP DEMON WILL EAT YOUUUUU!

LIKE THIIIIIIS!!!!!

But then I realized that NO one would believe something as outrageous as that. Although sometimes when I walk into my room after being away from it for a few hours, it sure SMELLS like the poop demon is very real and a force to be reckoned with. Thank God we got fabreeze.

Buh, I spent so much time creating a poop demon that I've grown tired of ruling my flat mate's lives with fear and intimidation. I think I'll just perch myself in the kitchen until August like a vulture so everyone knows I'm watching them. I wonder if they sell fake feathers at Tesco...

In other news I used the word "cheers" in actual conversation with a British person! YAY! I'M PRACTICALLY A NATIVE. Tomorrow I'll go apply to be knighted, I haven't written an application essay in a while but I bet it's just like riding a bike! YEUUUUHHHH KNIGHTHOOOD WHUSSUP, QUEEN?

Can you be American and be a knight? If no, then I'll just tell them that people cross over cultures all the time! I'm not Jewish but that doesn't stop me from loving the crap out of Passover! Seriously, Jewish cuisine is DUH-LISH-USS.

.... I never thought I'd start out a post with poop demons and end up at Passover. Oh the things we can think.

We're on break after a crazed, zombie inducing week of finals and most of my friends abandoned me to go to Spain for the next three days so expect more inane posts like this for the duration of that time span.

LAHVE,

sample

Mark

Wow, sorry I haven't been posting as regularly as possible. Life got into somewhat of a routine here and less exciting things happened. But who needs adventure to have fun?? There's plenty of crazy ass crap going on right here in my very dorm room. My roommates and I are practically our own little dysfunctional family now so I want to share them with you.

I have three roommates, Mark, Claude, and Terry. They're each very special in their own way and bring something special to the table and the speciality just blossoms all over the place all the freakin time. First, we will talk about Mark.

Mark has an uncanny ability to be nude when you least expect it, a skill I have grown to admire. His warning (if he chooses to give you one) is, "Hey, don't turn around." Unfortunately, I have yet to listen to him and have always turned around (Side note: Terry and Mark just informed me that "alwaysed" isn't a word. How special!). I have a growing fear that I will never learn to not turn around and will continue to sporadically see Mark's bare ass until August. I've seen it far too many times for us to not be going steady. Mark may be that kind of guy but I'm a gentleman.

Mark is special to me for a number of reasons beyond shamelessly donning his birthday suit, believe it or not. Mark is the reason I decided to study straight men. I'm learning their language, and slowly but surely I'm learning their ways. It was the night Mark had two of his friends over that I found myself in a plethora of stinking, wonderful testosterone - an anthropologists dream come true. I'm pretty sure the three of them were drunk, as it was a wednesday night with only ONE class scheduled for the next day. I have termed this kind of gathering a "bro-thering."

One of Mark's bros, Harry I believe was his name, stumbled over to me holding a laptop and asked what rank the girl on the screen deserved. At first I was scared, confused, and a little cold but Harry took notice of my inner turmoil and slurred, "Ish she a eight or a nynne?" I looked carefully, anxious I would offend the bro and said "7 1/2."

"Reallly?"

"Yes."

Harry seemed disappointed, Mark hollered from his bed, "He's been after this girl for four years." Four years?? I don't ever remember crushing on someone for more than two weeks without saying something. But alas, perhaps the way of the bro is different. Harry wasn't bad looking, and despite the drunken slurring, he seemed like a pretty stand up guy. He was three sheets to the wind and managed to keep his pants on in front people he'd just met, good enough for me. What was weirder was that he was gushing over this girl like a schoolgirl in front of a Zack Effron poster. He continued to show me pictures of this girl in various poses to try and improve my judgement of her.

"Wha' about thissone?"

"Eh."

"This onne?"

"Are her eyes looking in the same direction?"

"OKAY okay how 'bout THISS one??"

This continued for several minutes and after seeing the girl in about twenty pictures he showed me one in which she managed to pull of a hair bump flawlessly. I gave her an eight.

"YES!" Harry exclaimed. It was weird, I thought bros only talked about porn, alcohol and well, porn. But Harry not only facebook stalked another human being of feminine persuasion, but campaigned for her hotness. What was to come next? Silk pajamas and a pillow fight? I felt like I was in high school and the lines of gender began to blur once again...

But I spoke too soon. Moments later, Mark pulled out a sandwich and made a peculiar exchange with Terry, my second roommate. Terry sat up from his bed like a deer sensing poachers and walked over to Mark.

"Ya got a sandwich there?" He asked.

"Yeah, I got it from Pret, it's a (whatever the fuck it was)."

"I gotta be honest, that looks like a really good fuckin' sandwich."

"That it is my friend!"

"You still got a little way to go, enjoy."

... What the hell just happened? I've never seen so much mild enthusiasm for a sandwich in my life. I almost think it was a counter attack on Harry's sickeningly sentimental high school crush on facebook girl (I forgot her name .3 seconds after I was told it). Then I thought, why does this seem girly to me? Maybe I should help disband the theory of female dependency on men by reporting my experience with Harry. It turns out that no matter what gender you are, you'll probably go through a phase in which you oggle someone from afar because you haven't quite mustered up the courage to say "hi." In an attempt to will the heavens into forcing that person into your life, you'll galavant his or her facebook picture around to all of your friends, demanding they admit he or she is as hot as you think he or she is.

On another side note, Claude just went to sit down next to Mark and his face turned pale moments before he fled the room, gasping for air... I'm assuming Mark is the silent but deadly type. Oh sweet Jesus he just sat down across the table from me... Whoever reads this, tell my family I love them and that I never wanted to go like this.

Okay false alarm, I'm alive.

Now would be the time I tell you about Terry and Claude, but I want to gather more from them before I write shamelessly about them. I want to do their reputations justice, like I did with Mark. We have six more weeks here so I'm sure I won't let them down. In fact, I'm not entirely sure I'm done telling you all about Mark anyway. Whatever happens, I'll try to paint the picture the best I can.

Love you all,

Sam

What a Small Town in Ireland Will Give You

Galway. Land of beer, banjos and the best friends you never knew existed. This was our experience in Ireland. At least on the second night anyway. The first might as well have been in a Turkish back alleyway.

We landed in Shannon at around 8 p.m., 15 minutes after the last bus to Galway left, leaving us no choice but to split up and take two cabs. Five minutes off the plane and we were already down 40 euros. Fuck. To make things more depressing, we get to the hostel and had to dish out money for the room, and it was one of those moments where too many people have to figure out who owes what without anyone remotely skilled at math. After all that and a bag of chips, we ventured out into the Irish night.

We found a pub that resembled something from medieval times and waltzed in. Having just lived in a high end town in London for the past three weeks had me expecting a poop load of evil eyes from the locals but we were received in a much different manner. Something a small town like Galway will give you is welcome. Friendly, warm, boisterous welcome.

Thank God, because I've tried not being loud and obnoxious like the British expect me to be, and well, I'm just not about to change that about myself. Sorry, England.

About two hours later I had chugged a Guinness and met an Irish girl named Sally, a.k.a. my Irish girlfriend. Our love thrived in vein because the first words from her to me were "Are you gay?" I nodded yes, to which she responded "FOCK! WHYE?" Something I love about the Irish is that they're not afraid to yell in the heartiest, jolliest way possible about everything. Sally had the talent of saying the word "fuck" and make it sound charming. She said jokingly to me, "Soon yull lern Sam, yool be straight and come back to me." I hope she finds someone awesome.

After my second Guinness I was starting to feel a little pregnant, so naturally, we went out to find food. Our options were extremely limited; it was either supermacs, a chain offering a plethora of every kind of fast food ever created or imagined by mankind, or a shitty little Turkish stand. In the spirit of staying Irish, we went to the Turkish place.

Outside the door there was a shady Turkish man smoking a cigarette just... looking at us. I was reminded of the time I had to pass a "roudy" horse at a farm, hesitant for fear of being bitten. Regardless, we were hungry so we committed and went in. I wasn't sure at first whether the "kebab" sign was a cover for an underground meth lab working for the Irish mafia, but the employees looked pretty wholesome. One of them even smiled at us while he hacked off hunks of meat from a spit. Long story short, we were stared at for a long time, and the food tasted like people.

The second day and night were a bit more exciting. We went to the Cliffs of Mohor, the most majestic and impressive natural wonders I've ever seen.

It's funny how I have yet to see anything like it in the states. Guess I need to travel more :) Unfortunately, we couldn't stay long because the door on our bus broke on the way up.

After the cliffs we got a chance to get some lunch and dinner. Then went out pub crawling. The first place we went to had a great folk music band that played for hours while we sat right next to them and enjoyed the jam session, swigging beer and mint liquor (the liquor is not an Irish thing, most of them were actually kind of confused by how green the liquid in our glasses was). It was at this pub where I met my next girlfriends. Catrina and Norma Jean. Another thing I love about Europe in general is that the gay and the straight all dress like they're gay so I fit in perfectly. But sadly I had to let them down, which didn't stop them from hugging and kissing me and well, all of us. The Irish are very comfortable and I love it all (up to a point, let's keep it PG, PG-13 at the most).

After a few more drinks and shots of Jameson, we all had a pretty good buzz on. Except for one of us. My friend Quincy had peaked earlier on in the night, and was sober, too sober to deal with us.

He made the mistake of getting a slice of pizza and eating it in front of us. I'm not sure if it was the Irish atmosphere, but a few of us smelt the food and turned into beasts.

My friend Kelsey's eyes rolled over and glazed black like a shark as she zombie charged Quincy. I followed suit, (neither knowing nor caring who's pizza it was) and took a huge bite, as did Catrina, my wife. The only way I can describe what this might have looked like is as if a scene from Dawn of the Dead was revived. Quincy threw his hands up, eyes wider than jet engines, and said, "I'm too sober for this, give me the key I'm leaving."

In our state of obliteration, we protested his departure in a less than strategic way. For some reason we thought wailing his name and latching onto his body like crazed koala bears would cause him to change his mind. It didn't, I'm pretty sure this only made him increase velocity away from us. One down.

After losing that battle, Catrina and Norma announced we were going to a different pub. Our posse of bombed zombies loudly made its way to the next location of merriment, but not before I tripped over one of those metal, stump-like things lining the sidewalk. Catrina, like a devoted wife should, rushed over to help me up. You know you're too drunk when an Irish person has to help you off the ground.

ANYway, the rest of pub crawling consisted of more shots, more Guinness and concluded with Footloose. Then we went to Supermacs, what we declined to go to on our first night, and probably pissed off every person in there. Oddly, there was a shit-ton of people for one in the morning. Must have something to do with the sun setting at eleven (so weird). This was where I bought a double bacon cheese burger, fries and a slice of pizza, a.k.a. the formula for my demise the following morning.

I've never been hung over for 48 hours straight, or this drunk ever in my life and I only include this information because no one died or lost their pants in the street. Responsibility might as well be my middle name.

I love Ireland. Here's a picture of me cheating death.

Electronic Music, Butt Spasms, and Men with Tentacles

To quickly start things off, I'll begin by telling you that we were disappointed with a club we went to last night. The floor was sticky, the rooms were crowded and the vibe was not something I think most Americans consider 'club like' People here don't dance, and the clubs usually only have dance music in the form of repetitive techno. I think if I hear one more DOOMP I'm going to maim the first person in arm's reach. So to avoid that disaster, we left the club and attempted to move on to a better place (no plan was made, we just started walking). On our journey outward, things got - unsurprisingly - quite amusing, to us at least. Maybe just me. DEFinitely not the locals (who saw that coming). The Brits don't seem to be very keen on meeting us when we travel in large groups. I'm guessing because we become a mass of loud, drunk, gyrating morons when we go out, and since we can never seem to accumulate less than a dozen of us when we go out (*cough*everynight*cough*) we have yet to meet british people and learn from their culture. Not that I need to. For some reason I don't feel like making friends that will be across the Atlantic Ocean when I come home - missing my friends and family right now is hard enough. I guess that's negative and lazy but whatever, I'm emotional. I probably won't have to worry about making that kind of connection however, because I'm sure we've convinced London's general population that we're all idiots. Something that didn't push our case last night whilst trekking out to find a better club, was when 20 of us played a real life game of frogger across the street to catch a bus. We made it across after screaming and flailing our way between speeding cars, but did NOT catch it (at this point some of us were straddling a fence separating us from the sidewalk... one of us couldn't get down). To our surprise, the bus stopped after a few feet of traffic. Those on the ground began to run, flail and scream again while the people stuck on the fence just... screamed and flailed. We missed the bus AGAIN and were stranded on the sidewalk having the poop judged out of us by bystanders. And as if we weren't stewing in enough of our own embarrassment already, one of our friends pinched a nerve in her hamstring. Where it gets embarrassing is when I didn't realize it was a pinched nerve but rather a pulled muscle in her ass. Already having had several shots of tequila I felt it necessary to announce to everyone in earshot, GUYS THIS IS SERIOUS, SHE PULLED HER BUTT. Whoops.

Later we ended up getting separated and I and two others found an awesome Turkish food stand still open at two a.m. and I had the best chicken sandwich ever. Thus was the conclusion of last night.

Tonight was more promising, as there was not as much annoying techno, evasive public transit, or sprained asses. To top it all off, this new club we discovered was covered in pink. What could go wrong? To our demise, we encountered a worser evil... Euro Trash. I'm not talking brightly colored, swishy windbreaker pants, I'm talking gross-ass men. Those that are actually trash for ACTING like trash, and for some reason, they were in force at the club we were so hopeful for. The men there were disgusting. They practically had tentacles creeping from their sleeves. A couple of rico suaves came up to us and Night at the Roxbury-ed a few of the girls. These ones didn't understand the word "no" so they returned for a second time as if the girls they were just pestering magically acquired a burning desire to have sex with a dick head. I ALMOST GOT IN A FIGHT. And by that I mean some guy grabbed my friend's wrist and I was like DON'T TOUCH HER and when he walked away I talked about how I was going to smack a bitch silly. It was intense. Thankfully I didn't unleash the ravenous beast from within upon the fool that thought he was allllllllllllllllllll that and a bag o' sass, but was really just a sack of tanning oil and excessive hair gel. Not all men here are like this, I assure you. I mean, I don't really know because the only interaction we've had with other brits was with creepy hornballs, but I'm sure that's just because the respectable ones are a little turned off by the sudden American invasion that we tend to unintentionally create when going out by the dozen. Regardless, I've definitely about had my fill of London night life. If electronic music is your thing, great, go nuts, glow stick your heart out, but it's not for me. It's probably a good thing, at least now without excessive clubbing, we'll have less opportunity to plant anti-american seeds all over the place. Till next time, my lovelies

Everything Reminds Me of Everything

Okay, this post will have nothing to do with any exciting adventures but rather some small things that pop into my head. I miss you all so much so I need to write to you about something.

Today my friend Chree and I went to do laundry... it cost me 10 pounds and her 12 pounds......................... my clothes better come out smelling like Jesus post reincarnation. The Scottish lady who works in our building, Margaret, that recommended it said "OOH thass a WEE BIT OF A DAMPER I'NT IT?" yes Margaret, it is.

Apparently she only gets charged 7 pounds. I think she gets a discount for not being American. We also can't get our laundry until tomorrow morning, so Chree, who gave in her towels, will have to blow-dry herself dry tomorrow morning. Hilarious.

In other domestic news, we've come to get used to the lack of food preservatives. It never occurred to me that I might see a fruit transform from a solid to a liquid in the course of three days but England's organic produce aisle has put an END TO THAT ANXIETY. Nothing lasts here unless it involves mayonnaise or cream cheese. Our refrigerator smells like a dying everything. Seriously, we open it for less than a second and the whole kitchen smells like a manic monday at the morgue. I'll have no eyebrows by August, no biggie.

Did you know that people don't care if you're gay here? David Cameron (Prime Minister) openly spoke about it in the Prime Minister's Questions. Can American please jump on this bandwagon? What the fuck! Also, they don't incorporate religion in their political business. Another thing that is so medieval that I can't believe the U.S. still says "God bless America." NOT ALL AMERICANS BELIEVE IN ONE GOD. We need to not place one religion over others, it isn't fair, it isn't respectful, and ultimately, it's thoughtless.

OKAY DEBBIE DOWNER STOP BRINGIN DOWN MA BUZZZZZZ. kay, so here are some happy things.

My friends and I have started our own club/clan/league of professional assassins/chapter of Oprah's Book Club called the Basement Arts Club a.k.a. BAC (our flat is in the basement) and since I'm flat captain (appointed first day of trip in case I didn't tell you) I am their leader (note to self: inform them that I am their leader). They call me cappy, so I figure that's good enough to grant me total control over their lives whilst abroad.

Random note: We had the most intense conversation about Harry Potter in the pub down the street last night. I would have suggested that we not do that in respect to the locals but the bartender didn't know what a mudslide was so they were sentenced to moronic Harry Potter conversation PLUS Twilight PLUS Disney.

AAAANNNNNNYYYYYYYYYYwho! Here are some quotes from my friends here that you couldn't make up on your own.

Me: Smoking is bad for you

Kelsey: I know, my whole family has lung cancer.

Chree: (double fisting cigarettes) YEAHHH, we got lung and skin cancer in mine, WHAT'S UP DEATH?

Kelsey: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAApricot

Katherine & Quincy in the middle of the street: THIS IS SOOOOO GB (Great Britain - if it's in code, they won't understand us)

Trish: Where's Gauri?

Me: IS SHE POOPING??

Trish: What?

Chree: freshmen are whores.

Kelsey: I was a microwave for Halloween last year.

Trish: Why must your red shorts be involved in all of our decisions?

Me: 'cause my hips don't lie?

Kelsey: What? You don know ma life.

Okay about 20 people just walked into our kitchen. Probably because the basement is where it's at. I honestly feel that we are the equivalent to the lower deck on the Titanic. Is it taboo to riverdance in the UK without knowing how? STAY TUNED AND WE'LL ALL FIND OUT TOGETHER! YAY!

Till next time,

xoxo gossip sams