excuse me, america, you mispronounce my pain
And I love that I introduced my friend H (this is a different H; let’s call him the confoozid boy who scrunches up his face at any mention of mint ‘n’ chip ice cream and salmon and I don’t understand why I’m even friends with him still) to spoken word for the first time in his life. (“You have to come to this spoken word performance!” I kept exclaiming over the weekend. “What’s that?” said he. “HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHAT SPOKEN WORD IS?!” said I), and he loved it just as much I was hoping he would, laughing at all the right moments and clapping with enthusiasm and thanking me nonstop afterward (“I owe you,” says he; “Thank you so much for telling me about it.” “No, you don’t,” say I; “Thank you for coming along”).
That was the highlight of my day, you don’t even know.
The next highlight is dinner.
Yeah, I know, about five hours late.
It’s that age-old dilemma: food or sleep, sleep or food? What to do, what to do? When it comes down to it, I always choose sleep, but dang, I’m really hungry right about now.
Alright soljahs, midnight raid on the kitchen begins…NOW.
(And in yet other news, I’ve decided I know too many guys whose names start with “H” and too many girls whose names start with “S.” Do you even understand how many days it takes for me to scroll through all the “S”s in my cell phone when I’m trying to find a name? I mean, really, the oh so rare instances in which I do use my phone, I’d like for it to be an efficient process, ya know. So that’s it, I’ve decided Hasan is gonna be the only H-guy I know and Somayya is gonna be the only S-girl, and all the rest of you H and S people are just gonna have to change your names. No arguments.
And what’s up with all the parentheses and semi-colon usage in this post anyway?)