Maunders my misfiring memory missle
When I started college at a Midwestern, private Lutheran school [the previous four words would be just as accurate and descriptive in whatever order you choose to read them] I did the expected thing, which was to move into the dorm.
Anyone who has been scarred by a similar experience would agree: Rooms in a dormitory have the unique quality of getting lonelier as the number of people in them increases.
At 18, I already had a number of apartments behind me, but now I was in the situation of living with a person that I had never met, and in whom I had no interest. Now, before you conclude that I was being too judgmental, let me say that during this time, I made many new friends, a number with which I am still in contact, but this person was replete with bombast.
No matter what he did, whether drinking an “audacious red” at some wine festival, or writing a sonnet, you got the distinct impression from the look on his face that he thought that he was falling down a mineshaft.
Among the most tumid of his proclivities was to explain every single thing that he made reference to while telling a story, as though I had never seen or done a single fucking thing in my miserable life that might have led me to any knowledge what so ever, and that without him, the great unwashed masses of which I was so obviously a part would never have heard of Modest Mouse.
