cookie dough

In a sick and twisted way, it feels great to argue with PacBell – oops, I mean SBC – over the phone line in my new apartment. It’s sort of comforting to know that I’m going through the same sort of bullshit that everyone else does, even if I’m doing it ten years late.

I always was the tardy one. Walked late, talked late, teethed late, screwed late. The only thing I did early was learn how to read. It figures.

Apparently free boxes are only available around 01:00 at Safeway. I am such an old fart that I’m lucky if I see 01:00, let alone get in the car and drive to Safeway to ask for boxes. I miss the days of all-nighters, the days that didn’t end, that just stretched into a week and then it was a matter of hallucinating TMBG songs in my poli-sci class, wandering outside in the January air to find a place to smoke a crapass menthol cigarette and wonder how my feet were able to detach themselves from my body and wander off towards the dining hall.

Really, I miss it.

Mostly I miss that feeling of being a college student: the inimitable fuck-you-world feeling, hiding amidst change-major forms and blue books and beer bongs and ramen and “Jeopardy” and then, you know, dessert of cookie dough raw from the plastic tube, all my fingers stuck up together and sweet and salty at once, like sex only with chocolate chips.

This time, we’ll do it over. We’ll have a full-time job and we’ll have ten years of knowledge and we’ll have a cat. We’ll have a room again, all to ourselves; we’ll have a hotpot. We’ll have ramen. We’ll have evenings alone and weekends uncluttered by frat parties. We’ll have no television. We’ll have DSL.

And maybe we’ll have some cookie dough.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.