On Top of the World It Smells Like Onion Backpacks

Grocery Games

By: Samwell Rockhouse

Hello fellow bloggers! Today is a good day! It looks like we’ll be spending a few moments together and learning how to drink a margarita while telepathically telling a dog to buy a couple sharpies for Christmas. I just had a notification pop up from the bottom right part of my computer screen. Where do those come from? Computer dungeons? Virus-free ponds? Kanye West’s fingernails? I bet it would be quite a party in a Turkish bathroom after 5 pm.

Well, I’m pretty much free from educational institutions now. I’ve felt pretty affectionate towards the whole idea for many seconds on racks on seconds on racks. Now, what’s next? I’m feeling like there are certain things I’ll leave out but others that will need to be put in my bag of troubles and tribulations. First off, I’m gonna need some room to dance, something a little funky, purple to the suckas, extra crispy like bacon on fire. That kind of room. I might go to London and infect their country with an oblique sense of humor, only to fall down flat on my face after 20 altoids downed with pepsi. I might read a little more about law and medicine, maybe pull all-nighters eating fries and crying over Plessy Vs. Ferguson, that’s Plan Z though. Going to the Grand Canyon would be nice. It sounds nicer than a new box of crayons but last time I went in I tripped over a piece of gum, leaning onto a tree trunk, making it fall off, making it land in the water below at 300 mph onto the last known race of albino salmon in a migration formation similar to Mona Lisa’s smile, just plain shitty luck ladies and rentelmen. I want to save up a lot of money from doing sales training under the supervision of my step dad then put 20’s over all my 1’s, buy a microwave with one button which can only open, close, cook for one minute, cook for seventeen, broil, bake, baste as singular options by mind power, not hand labor. I want to write more poetry, only not be picky onto which Emily Dickinson poem I’ll use as a spiritual plane as to write the simplest haiku (kind of like what happened at the end of Ghost Busters when all four of our hero ghost annihilators destroy Gozer on his own playing field. Great flick). I’ve been doing a lot of cookie eating lately, keeping my food business strictly off the record to all the media mongers. I want to meet fire fighters. Maybe even ask for a fire engine test drive and ask if I can take a 90 degree turn at 50 mph but they might say to me, in clear and vibrant tones, to eat pumpkin carcass. I’ve always been a fan of loud whistling in quiet places. I want to convince people Pinocchio is my brother and further their curiosity by making a 10 foot long piece of wood go through my front window with a sign that reads at the tip, “He went into a coma right after telling a lie”. That way it will just continue to stay there until I feel like taking it down. So what else is new? Nothing really. My clothes are still being hung up by my carpet and I’ve been drinking beers to stay awake, nothing too fancy I’m sorry to say.

This summer has been a very delightful quest so far. I’ve already accomplished two tasks. The first being, smiling and the second as you all rightfully know I’ve been working on for a long time, graduating from the University of the Oakland Raiders with a degree in taco salad mountaineering. I hope to lay low for several days out of the week to dedicate myself to pride in ownership, speaking with old friends, playing dodge ball with very combatant middle-aged folks, smoking celery in armories, being nicer to my sworn enemies and maybe 2/3’s nicer to my scout’s honer ones. It’s been an honor treating you to snacks and twilight saga shaped desserts but I must go now. There are several beasts staring at me through trees unfaithful to my garden gnomes, mumbling wizards with beards that swallow whole doctrines, and car alarms that need to be shut off by my iniquitous bathtub. Until we meet again, Carl Sagan’s favorite baseball player, signing out. Peace on racks on racks

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