bananas foster pancakes, the infinitely classier version of those of jack johnson fame are nestled happily in my stomach. empty glasses and bottles surround my bed in such a manner that they appear to be paying tribute to some patron saint of alcohol and indiscretion. which is normally dionysus but i guess last night was me. ah, well. more filler for “up shit creek without a charger, ” a memoir that will document my blissful college years.
kidding.
i think i’m still slightly tilted.
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