No Potluck
The potluck got cancelled in favor of some sort of Day of the Dead festival thing. Sigh.
The potluck got cancelled in favor of some sort of Day of the Dead festival thing. Sigh.
I did not have a photo assignment to turn in last week, so I printed some random stuff after the lecture.
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My Mexican Folklore class is having a potluck on Wednesday. I’m thinking cochinita pibil, or some sort of mole — perhaps one of the seven from Oaxaca. You know you want my meat.
“I’m six kinds of trouble,” she said. I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m in the middle of a bad breakup,” she continued. Internally I guffawed. I laughed until I wept and then slept it off, all within a single beat of the dance music.
“Just give me your fucking number so I can never call you!” I shouted. Enough with the fucking around. Let’s get down to it! The world, with its tap dancing incestuous band lineups who are ex girlfriends of bass players of bands on whose singers I have crushes, just will not grow past my own udder.
It could take a WEEK to transfer 30g+ of gallery images to the new server.
A WEEK.
Oh man.
This was a conversation that someone and I had a while ago.
Man Man played the Seventh Street Entry the other night. I haven’t been to a show where I have screamed so much since the 2005 Pizza Luce Block Party. I lost my voice screaming for Har Mar to take off his pants. I’m not proud of that, but — okay, yes I am.
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