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Part Of Man Wonders What It Would Be Like To Fall Through Floor Into Downstairs Apartment
Part Of Man Wonders What It Would Be Like To Fall Through Floor Into Downstairs Apartment
T$ from Dayton, OH on Sep.282011
I’m so lucky I got to try this shampoo. I was staying at a friends house and forgot mine so I used hers. And this stuff is great!! All the junk in my hair I thought was hard water from my apartment was washed away and my hair was soft and smooth again. I can’t believe I was wasting to much money on expensive shampoos.
Suave Naturals Shampoo, Wild Cherry Blossom, 22.5 fl oz
Shampoo, Wild Cherry Blossom
UNITED STATES—A racially diverse group gathered in the living room of a stylish and well-appointed apartment earlier this week to enjoy various snack items, moderate amounts of low-calorie alcoholic beverages, and the company of other attractive young adults while watching a sporting event on a sleek new high-definition television.
Sources confirmed the group began to assemble roughly an hour before the sports broadcast, arriving at the apartment as happy, carefree singles or visibly affectionate interracial couples. They brought with them snacks, most of which were either dip-related or dips in and of themselves.
Many also brought beer, always of a certain specific brand.
Each arrival was greeted with instant recognition and genuine warmth, as those who had already made themselves comfortable offered to help with any unpacking of food or with snack preparation. Under no circumstances was a large interval of time allowed to elapse before any new arrival was offered liquid refreshment, which was invariably referred to by its full brand name and was consumed from a cup containing the logo of a favored sports team or directly from the original container.
All snacks were placed on a low table between the capacious, comfortable sofa and the large television set, which had already begun to display crystal-clear pictures of the upcoming sporting event, and good-natured, lighthearted arguments began as to whether the images were more notable for their sharpness or their color.
Participants reportedly dredged golden, perfectly triangular tortilla chips through thick, ruby-red salsa during the discussion, chasing the fiery saltiness down with ice-cold mouthfuls of crisp yet light beer before agreeing that the sharpness and color of the display were both of such excellence that no judgment could be made between the two.
After a brief interlude, during which one of the slender and vaguely exotic-looking women present emerged from the kitchen bearing in Pilates-toned arms a tray of her famous ginger-scented Asian delicacies, the discussion turned to the athletic competition itself.
Men explained the rules, regulations, strategies, and traditions of the sport to the women, a noble gesture that was turned on its head when one of the women present was revealed to possess a highly developed working knowledge of the game, such that she was able to correct the males on certain points and back up her observations by making references to past events. The histories of both teams were explored, and their rivalry debated, as was the likely outcome of the game the attractive group was about to witness.
A possible social minefield emerged with the disclosure that one of the people present was a fan of the opposing team, but the group’s long-standing friendship won out after mere seconds of awkwardness, and all seemed to agree that loyalty to one another, even while viewing a crucial and hotly contested sporting event, was far more important than loyalty to a team. The incident was punctuated by loud, vocal demands that the fan of the opposition be given a fresh cold beverage, which was of course referred to as usual by its full brand name.
Mere moments before the game was to begin, the sound of a doorbell diverted attention from the impressive television and caused a disruption of the seating order as the group rearranged itself to accommodate the late arrival. Various exclamations indicated the identity of this person could be guessed by the mere fact of his tardiness, a behavior evidently common on his part; however, all was forgiven when the assembled viewers saw the new person was holding a large metal tub filled with shaved ice and fresh bottles of the aforementioned name-brand beer.
The new arrival was accompanied by a large, effusively friendly golden retriever who wore his own custom-made jersey emblazoned with his name and the number zero. The golden retriever was also known to all by name.
At press time, the team favored by most of the attractive and diverse crowd had evidently just scored due to a sudden reversal of fortune, causing everyone in attendance to raise a beer aloft and shout while a cloud of snack items erupted into the air and the golden retriever barked in excitement. The exact location of the game in question, its final score, and even the sport being played remain unknown.
Dear Mr. Robinson,
I would like to thank you for visiting my third-grade class eleven years ago. I’m not sure you remember me- I was the one picking my nose. It was simply a delight to have the opportunity to take a break from our stressful lives in order to be educated on exactly all of the possibilities my garbage had. And what possibilities there were!
I’ve met a lot of recycling advocates over the years, but none have left an impression like you did. I realize that it has, indeed, been more than a decade, and I’m not entirely sure that you remember exactly what you taught us (the excessive amount of marijuana you undoubtedly consume may have had that effect). Just in case, here’s a reminder.
You strolled confidently into the room as my teacher stepped warily aside.
“Hey, kids!” you said, not quite using your inside voice.
A smattering of returned, nervous greetings drifted from the crowd of third-graders. I picked my nose.
“Ooooh, I know you can do better than that,” you chortled. Such cheery condescension you exhibited.
“Hi,” the children returned, with a little more gusto. I picked my nose with a little more gusto.
“My name is Mr. Robinson, And I am here to talk to you about garbage.” You crinkled your nose adorably to accompany this exposition. Little did you know that the aroma that entered the room with you had already revealed the theme of your lecture. “What are you supposed to do with garbage?”
“Throw it away,” I answered. I was a marvelous multi-tasker.
That was the springboard your truly inspirational lecture needed. First you listed the things people throw away lots of. When one curious boy inquired what a used condom was, you shirked the question like a pro. You then discussed perhaps the coolest thing you could possibly do with garbage: build robots.
The moment that I looked at your sample robot was the moment that my life changed. Never before had I realized just how much like a robot’s head a paint can looked. My eyes were opened to the similarities between a milk carton and a robot’s torso. I was truly inspired. You filled your entire allotted 45 minutes with garbage robot possibilities, and that’s when I knew that there was absolutely no more useful or renewable purpose that garbage could serve than to construct inanimate robots.
Eleven years later I can be found in an apartment positively chock-full of trash-bots, as I so affectionately refer to them now. They populate the top of my fridge, the top of my bookshelves, underneath my bed, they lie in heaps in my living room, and run amuck in generally every square inch of liveable space my modest apartment offers.
I look around the place frequently and swell with pride. As I wade through the loosely-assembled trash-bots, trying to accomplish the simple tasks of the day-to-day, I remind myself that there is positively no more sustainable way to live. My parents call me a hoarder. I call them murderers of Mother Earth. I scoff at their complaints of “no space,” at their concerns over the “smell,” at their tearfully emotional appeals that my life of recycling is “destructive and unsanitary.”
Unfortunately, Mr. Robinson, I feel myself beginning to have doubts.
At night, whilst I lay in bed, I feel their cold bottle-cap eyes studying me from the dresser. The eyes of the ones crammed into bed with me dig into my arm. I have creeping suspicions that the swelling I feel may not be from pride, but from a fledgling infection. A thought occurs to me: I don’t love these robots like I used to.
Why? It could be for several reasons. Maybe I’m less interested in robots now than I was when I was eight. Maybe it’s a flare-up of that pesky human instinct to separate ourselves from our own waste. You tell me. You’re the expert, not me.
I don’t want to kill Mother Earth. My parents say I don’t have to; that there are other ways to recycle. That metals and plastics can be melted down and made into new things by other people so that we don’t have to pile it up in our house. But it all feels like a trap to me.
I tell them calmly and reasonably that you never mentioned anything about that. I remind them that you are clearly the expert on such matters, being permitted to lecture to third-graders on the subject and all.
At this, Mom teared up hopelessly. Dad’s temple began to throb in that way it does when I bring you up in conversation. I picked my nose nervously. He suggested, in so many words, that I attempt to contact you in order to obtain your “liberal psychobabble” opinion on the matter.
So please, Mr. Robinson, tell me now if I have the wrong idea. My artistic outlet has become my physical imprisonment. And whatever this “liberal psychobabble” business may be (I was never good with SAT words), I urge you to apply it as much as possible to your response. My Dad seems to believe that therein lies the solution.