| Friday, April 15, 2005 |
| Maunders my misfiring memory missle |
When I started college at a Midwestern, private Lutheran school [the
previous four words would be just as accurate and descriptive in
whatever order you choose to read them] I did the expected
thing, which was to move into the dorm. Anyone who
has been scarred by a similar experience would
agree: Rooms in a dormitory have the unique
quality of getting lonelier as the number of
people in them increases.
At 18, I already had a number of apartments
behind me, but now I was in the situation of living
with a person that I had never met, and in whom I
had no interest. Now, before you conclude that I was
being too judgmental, let me say that during this time,
I made many new friends, a number with which I am
still in contact, but this person was replete with
bombast.
No matter what he did, whether drinking an
“audacious red” at some wine festival, or writing a
sonnet, you got the distinct impression from the look
on his face that he thought that he was falling down
a mineshaft.
Among the most tumid of his
proclivities was to explain
every single thing that
he made reference to
while telling a story,
as though I had
never seen or
done a single
fucking
thing in my
miserable
life that
might have led
me to any
knowledge of any
kind, and that
without him,
the great
unwashed masses
of which I was so obviously a part
would never have heard of Modest Mouse.
previous four words would be just as accurate and descriptive in
whatever order you choose to read them] I did the expected
thing, which was to move into the dorm. Anyone who
has been scarred by a similar experience would
agree: Rooms in a dormitory have the unique
quality of getting lonelier as the number of
people in them increases.
At 18, I already had a number of apartments
behind me, but now I was in the situation of living
with a person that I had never met, and in whom I
had no interest. Now, before you conclude that I was
being too judgmental, let me say that during this time,
I made many new friends, a number with which I am
still in contact, but this person was replete with
bombast.
No matter what he did, whether drinking an
“audacious red” at some wine festival, or writing a
sonnet, you got the distinct impression from the look
on his face that he thought that he was falling down
a mineshaft.
Among the most tumid of his
proclivities was to explain
every single thing that
he made reference to
while telling a story,
as though I had
never seen or
done a single
fucking
thing in my
miserable
life that
might have led
me to any
knowledge of any
kind, and that
without him,
the great
unwashed masses
of which I was so obviously a part
would never have heard of Modest Mouse.