If a class must constantly reassert its importance to me, it is not important. It's self-important, sure. Enter, Core 412. It clearly never learned that important rule of life: understated is (almost) always better. Really,Core412, must you yell at me throughout the syllabus, stressing your significance with fancy formatting, bold requirements, and italicized threats telling me I'd better take this course seriously, OR ELSE.
I mean, is that really necessary? Core, you have negated your potential importance through the simple of act of telling me how damn important you are.
The classes I take seriously are those whose syllabi do not threaten me, whose readings are tough, discussions riveting, and grading difficult. In those courses, the professor never professes that the work will change my life. (Inevitably, it does.) He doesn't tell me how I'll appreciate the class in 5 year, nor does he mention how much I'll miss if I skip a class. In fact, he probably doesn't even take attendance, because I know it's my proverbial ass if I miss such a dense two hours.
So, STFU Core412. Take your italicized threats and shove 'em. When you drop the hype and self-celebration, maybe I'll take you seriously. Until then, you'll find me daydreaming about the bonfire I'm going to have with your syllabus.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Uh oh, what does this say about me?
In response to Antionette's post, here are my current 25 (in no particular order). Odd mix of Spanish, English, instrumental, hip-hop, and singer-songwriter stuff...
1. Your Hand in Mine - Explosions in the Sky
2. Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
3. Peruvian Cocaine - Immortal Technique
4. Sorry About Your Irony - El Ten Eleven
5. Time Stops - Explosions in the Sky
6. Golpe de Estado - Immortal Techinique
7. My Last Song to Jenny - The Avett Brothers
8. Blink - Blue Scholars
9. The Thing About It - Sweatshop Union
10. Jesus, etc. - Wilco
11. Se Acabo - Welfare Poets
12. A Song - Virginia Coalition
13. North by Northwest - Blue Scholars
14. Jesus the Mexican Boy and/or Such Great Heights - Iron & Wine
15. One of These Things First - Nick Drake
16. La Hermanita - Aventura
17. Central Nervous Piston - El Ten Eleven
18. Colors and/or Night Train - Amos Lee
19. The Luckiest - Ben Folds Five
20. Fiery Crash - Andrew Bird
21. Si Tu No Bailas Conmigo - Juan Luis Guerra
22. Que Será - Diego Torres
23. Blue Collar Ballad - Sweatshop Union
24. Alexandra - Aventura
25. Uncle Sam Goddamn and/or Letter from the Government - Brother Ali
plus a bunch of Alexi Murdoch (All of My Days/Love You More), some random cumbia (Ven Tu y Grupo Nectar), more Immortal Techinique (Open Your Eyes), Blue Scholars, Sweatshop Union, Silent Knight, Explosions in the Sky, El Ten Eleven, Andrew Bird, random 90s alt rock, etc.
Really, I will listen to anything from Aventura anytime. They've been one of my favorite groups since high school. I listen to their current music, which is sometimes reggeton-esque, out of loyalty, but prefer the pure bachata of their early career. The two songs I added to this list are holding the place of all of their music.
All of my hip hop is underground, all of it is social commentary, and most of it is some degree of anti-capitalist. But then again, knowing me, that isn't surprising...
I know I kind of cheated with some of those "and/or" ones... but hey, it's my list.
1. Your Hand in Mine - Explosions in the Sky
2. Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine
3. Peruvian Cocaine - Immortal Technique
4. Sorry About Your Irony - El Ten Eleven
5. Time Stops - Explosions in the Sky
6. Golpe de Estado - Immortal Techinique
7. My Last Song to Jenny - The Avett Brothers
8. Blink - Blue Scholars
9. The Thing About It - Sweatshop Union
10. Jesus, etc. - Wilco
11. Se Acabo - Welfare Poets
12. A Song - Virginia Coalition
13. North by Northwest - Blue Scholars
14. Jesus the Mexican Boy and/or Such Great Heights - Iron & Wine
15. One of These Things First - Nick Drake
16. La Hermanita - Aventura
17. Central Nervous Piston - El Ten Eleven
18. Colors and/or Night Train - Amos Lee
19. The Luckiest - Ben Folds Five
20. Fiery Crash - Andrew Bird
21. Si Tu No Bailas Conmigo - Juan Luis Guerra
22. Que Será - Diego Torres
23. Blue Collar Ballad - Sweatshop Union
24. Alexandra - Aventura
25. Uncle Sam Goddamn and/or Letter from the Government - Brother Ali
plus a bunch of Alexi Murdoch (All of My Days/Love You More), some random cumbia (Ven Tu y Grupo Nectar), more Immortal Techinique (Open Your Eyes), Blue Scholars, Sweatshop Union, Silent Knight, Explosions in the Sky, El Ten Eleven, Andrew Bird, random 90s alt rock, etc.
Really, I will listen to anything from Aventura anytime. They've been one of my favorite groups since high school. I listen to their current music, which is sometimes reggeton-esque, out of loyalty, but prefer the pure bachata of their early career. The two songs I added to this list are holding the place of all of their music.
All of my hip hop is underground, all of it is social commentary, and most of it is some degree of anti-capitalist. But then again, knowing me, that isn't surprising...
I know I kind of cheated with some of those "and/or" ones... but hey, it's my list.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Clarification
I originally wrote this as a response to Katy's comment on my last post, but I've decided to post it here, because I don't like the impression I've apparently given that meat consumption is evil, etc. So, here it goes:
Clarification:
I have no problem whatsoever eating meat. I'm trying out the vegetarian thing right now as sort of a challenge, as moral support for my beau who went vegetarian as his New Year's resolution (solidarity), and as an evironmental statement - the rate of cow consumption in this country especially is horrible for the environment. For example, for every pound of beef I do not eat, I save 2,500 to 5,000 gallons of water a year... and that's only one possible example of many.
That's why I need gross mental images to help me not eat meat - since I love it so much, I need something to control my cravings. And, I see nothing wrong with eating animals that have been treated well. I don't like the idea of animal abuse - it makes my stomach turn - but I would have no problem raising and eating my own chickens. That's no big deal.
People shouldn't stop eating meat because of animal cruelty, although I wish we would demand more humane treatment of the animals we do eat. We can demand that by choosing to purchase meat and eggs from free range chickens, etc. It's getting easier, too... for example, there's now a "Certified Humane" stamp you can look for if you so choose.
I think the environmental reasons are compelling enough to suggest that people cut their meat intake. Note, I don't say everyone should give it up. It tastes good. But we should reduce how much we consume. That is, if we care about the Earth.
Clarification:
I have no problem whatsoever eating meat. I'm trying out the vegetarian thing right now as sort of a challenge, as moral support for my beau who went vegetarian as his New Year's resolution (solidarity), and as an evironmental statement - the rate of cow consumption in this country especially is horrible for the environment. For example, for every pound of beef I do not eat, I save 2,500 to 5,000 gallons of water a year... and that's only one possible example of many.
That's why I need gross mental images to help me not eat meat - since I love it so much, I need something to control my cravings. And, I see nothing wrong with eating animals that have been treated well. I don't like the idea of animal abuse - it makes my stomach turn - but I would have no problem raising and eating my own chickens. That's no big deal.
People shouldn't stop eating meat because of animal cruelty, although I wish we would demand more humane treatment of the animals we do eat. We can demand that by choosing to purchase meat and eggs from free range chickens, etc. It's getting easier, too... for example, there's now a "Certified Humane" stamp you can look for if you so choose.
I think the environmental reasons are compelling enough to suggest that people cut their meat intake. Note, I don't say everyone should give it up. It tastes good. But we should reduce how much we consume. That is, if we care about the Earth.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Animal games
For the record, that sight (see post below) was all I really needed to reaffirm a vegetarian lifestyle.
Here's the game I play when craving meat (works 98.872% of the time... approximately):
Look at that beautiful, perfectly cooked and seasoned chicken breast. Now, think of it alive, jammed into a cage with 12 other miserable birds. They are sick, dirty and standing in their own... well, you get the picture. Now, how about splattered on the roadside after the daring escape from prison (aka the chicken truck)? Still want those nuggets?
Want to hear the cow game?
Mmmm, hamburger smells good. Really damn good. God, I want a steak. But wait... close your eyes... uh-huh, good. Now remember watching the cows being loaded onto our ship in the Amazon? The beatings, those poor animals. Skin and bones, slipping and sliding down the bank, falling into the water, with the rope forcing painful contortions - ways an animal's body shouldn't bend. Still hungry? Ok. Remember the sound? The crack that could be heard all the way on the top deck of the ship, as the deckhands folded the cow's tail and snapped it in two to get her to move?
Do you really want to support that with your consumption of meat?
I didn't think so.
Here's the game I play when craving meat (works 98.872% of the time... approximately):
Look at that beautiful, perfectly cooked and seasoned chicken breast. Now, think of it alive, jammed into a cage with 12 other miserable birds. They are sick, dirty and standing in their own... well, you get the picture. Now, how about splattered on the roadside after the daring escape from prison (aka the chicken truck)? Still want those nuggets?
Want to hear the cow game?
Mmmm, hamburger smells good. Really damn good. God, I want a steak. But wait... close your eyes... uh-huh, good. Now remember watching the cows being loaded onto our ship in the Amazon? The beatings, those poor animals. Skin and bones, slipping and sliding down the bank, falling into the water, with the rope forcing painful contortions - ways an animal's body shouldn't bend. Still hungry? Ok. Remember the sound? The crack that could be heard all the way on the top deck of the ship, as the deckhands folded the cow's tail and snapped it in two to get her to move?
Do you really want to support that with your consumption of meat?
I didn't think so.
Pondering Chickens
Driving to Wilmington a few weeks ago, my normally boring ride was punctuated by the most bizarre sort of roadkill. I wasn't sure it was roadkill at all, at first. It looked like a white furry teddy bear had been mauled on the side of the road, or as if perhaps an pillow had been gutted and its innards badly beaten and then run over by a few dozen passing vehicles. This one horribly abused pillow/stuffed animal object was multiplied and scattered at random intervals along Highway 74 - there must have been three or four within a 40-mile stretch. With each new sighting, I had more questions, including but not limited to: "What the hell is that?", "Who would carry that thing in their car?", "Who would throw that thing out of their car?", and "Is that a duck?"
My guess of duck wasn't too far off, actually. Forty-five minutes later, I overtook the roadkill-spewing culprit: an 18-wheeler stuffed with live chickens. They hadn't been childrens toys or home furnishings: they were poultry. All of the chickens were (quite tightly, as it appeared to me) locked in their respective cages (these are not the farmers from whom I purchase eggs!). How, I wondered, did they manage to escape their little mesh jails? What must that look like, to be driving behind a chicken truck and see poultry go flying out the side? Were they alive when they escaped? How many chickens are lost in transport each month, each trip? Do some die just from the terrible trauma of the wind rushing past at 70mph? If they arrive dead, are they processed and sold anyway? Do I really want to know the answer to that last one?
Seriously. How many chickens does one lose in transport?
My guess of duck wasn't too far off, actually. Forty-five minutes later, I overtook the roadkill-spewing culprit: an 18-wheeler stuffed with live chickens. They hadn't been childrens toys or home furnishings: they were poultry. All of the chickens were (quite tightly, as it appeared to me) locked in their respective cages (these are not the farmers from whom I purchase eggs!). How, I wondered, did they manage to escape their little mesh jails? What must that look like, to be driving behind a chicken truck and see poultry go flying out the side? Were they alive when they escaped? How many chickens are lost in transport each month, each trip? Do some die just from the terrible trauma of the wind rushing past at 70mph? If they arrive dead, are they processed and sold anyway? Do I really want to know the answer to that last one?
Seriously. How many chickens does one lose in transport?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
I want to be Peruvian again
I'm going to repost something I wrote in Lima, 'cause I was trying to describe what it's like to live in that city, and I thought this kind of captured it. Since the past few blogs haven't been very writing-related, this one will be. This is one of the aspects of life that most foreigners hate - it happens to be one of the things I miss the most.
Window to a Peruvian Existence: My Lullaby is the Call of a Cobrador
Lima is a huge, sprawling, densely-packed mass of humanity ever pushing at the seams of its defined space. For those living on the seams, in the far reaches of the city, it has been cited that they will spend more than four years of their lives in public transit. For the Limeño, it is not just a mode of transportation: it is a way of life.
And for the visitor, it is a fascinating, frightening mess; quite possibly the most insane yet efficient form of public transit ("public transit" used in the loosest sense of the term) I have ever witnessed. To utilize this mess gives one an intimate look at daily life-- both at the lives of Peruvians and my life in Lima as a Peruvian.
There are three types of vehicles, and they all work the same way. The smallest are combis, essentially the size of a fifteen passenger van. Not including the cobrador and chaufer, they seat around 16, plus 3-4 people standing, hunched over in the low space. Those tall enough can brace themselves by bending at the waist and firmly steadying their upper backs against the ceiling; others can do this with their heads or shoulders. Next in size are the coasters, which I personally use the most. They are the size of a small bus. They are followed by micros, which are the size of large school buses. As for the last two: I've never been able to get a good head count. Suffice it to say it is many-- many more than should be legally or comfortably allowed.
All of these have two workers: the chaufer, who is charged with careening through the congested streets at breakneck speeds, and the cobrador, who manages the passengers. While the carro is racing down the road, the cobrador hangs out the window screaming the names of the route they travel. With a voice like an aluminum can, he yells all day long: yelling the routes, calling to let the driver know that passengers are getting on (sube) or getting off (baja), calling for passengers to have their fares ready or to advance to the back. In his free moments, he elbows his way through the tightly packed aisle, collecting fares of S/. 0,50; S/.1; S/1,20. The call of the cobrador, on constant replay, sounds something like this:
As a passenger, especially a North American passenger, getting around Lima really challenges my concept of personal space. Namely, I have none. I have been in micros so crowded that no part of my body was untouched - so sandwiched that I had no need to hold on, because even though the stomach-lurching traffic dodging, there was nowhere for me to fall.
There are thousands of different mircos and combis, and they all drive different routes. They have the names of the major roads in their route painted on their sides. To know which car you want, you read the side and listen to the call of the cobrador. This in itself can be a challenge, as few people speak fluent cobrador. In the repetitious cycle of yelling, words get distorted, and you must understand - for example - that Javier Prado will sound as: JaiPrauJaiPrauJaiPrau!
To get on, you need merely wave at the cobrador, who will beat on the side of the bus, signaling to the driver to stop. To get off, you must yell loudly, telling him exactly where you need to stop - as there are few designated bus stops, it is generally an on-and-off free-for-all. Buses can stop as frequently as necessary, sometimes every half block. Sometimes it requires forcefulness, and there can be no shame: if you don't yell, the chaufer is likely to blow right past your stop.
Don't be fooled by the frightening speed at which the micros travel - you do not actually arrive quickly to your destination. They provide an excellent opportunity to develop your "sleep-anywhere" skills, listen to music (with caution: keep your mp3 player and cell phone well hidden), perfect your sense of balance, or soak up the warmth of many, many bodies, all a tad too close for comfort.
Two hours a day in this weaving, rushing, death-defying mass of smushed-together humanity, and you may begin to understand what it is like to really, truly be Limeño.
Window to a Peruvian Existence: My Lullaby is the Call of a Cobrador
Lima is a huge, sprawling, densely-packed mass of humanity ever pushing at the seams of its defined space. For those living on the seams, in the far reaches of the city, it has been cited that they will spend more than four years of their lives in public transit. For the Limeño, it is not just a mode of transportation: it is a way of life.
And for the visitor, it is a fascinating, frightening mess; quite possibly the most insane yet efficient form of public transit ("public transit" used in the loosest sense of the term) I have ever witnessed. To utilize this mess gives one an intimate look at daily life-- both at the lives of Peruvians and my life in Lima as a Peruvian.
There are three types of vehicles, and they all work the same way. The smallest are combis, essentially the size of a fifteen passenger van. Not including the cobrador and chaufer, they seat around 16, plus 3-4 people standing, hunched over in the low space. Those tall enough can brace themselves by bending at the waist and firmly steadying their upper backs against the ceiling; others can do this with their heads or shoulders. Next in size are the coasters, which I personally use the most. They are the size of a small bus. They are followed by micros, which are the size of large school buses. As for the last two: I've never been able to get a good head count. Suffice it to say it is many-- many more than should be legally or comfortably allowed.
All of these have two workers: the chaufer, who is charged with careening through the congested streets at breakneck speeds, and the cobrador, who manages the passengers. While the carro is racing down the road, the cobrador hangs out the window screaming the names of the route they travel. With a voice like an aluminum can, he yells all day long: yelling the routes, calling to let the driver know that passengers are getting on (sube) or getting off (baja), calling for passengers to have their fares ready or to advance to the back. In his free moments, he elbows his way through the tightly packed aisle, collecting fares of S/. 0,50; S/.1; S/1,20. The call of the cobrador, on constant replay, sounds something like this:
SubeSubeSube!VienteochoTacnaAbancayAbancayVeinteochoTacna!SubeSube!AvancenPorFavor,AvancenAvancen
BajaEsquinaBajaBajaBajaSigueBajandoVamos!VienteochoTacnaAbancayAbancayVeinteochoTacna!
PasajesenlamanoPasajesenlamanoPorFavor!BajaSemáforo, BajandoBajando....
As a passenger, especially a North American passenger, getting around Lima really challenges my concept of personal space. Namely, I have none. I have been in micros so crowded that no part of my body was untouched - so sandwiched that I had no need to hold on, because even though the stomach-lurching traffic dodging, there was nowhere for me to fall.
There are thousands of different mircos and combis, and they all drive different routes. They have the names of the major roads in their route painted on their sides. To know which car you want, you read the side and listen to the call of the cobrador. This in itself can be a challenge, as few people speak fluent cobrador. In the repetitious cycle of yelling, words get distorted, and you must understand - for example - that Javier Prado will sound as: JaiPrauJaiPrauJaiPrau!
To get on, you need merely wave at the cobrador, who will beat on the side of the bus, signaling to the driver to stop. To get off, you must yell loudly, telling him exactly where you need to stop - as there are few designated bus stops, it is generally an on-and-off free-for-all. Buses can stop as frequently as necessary, sometimes every half block. Sometimes it requires forcefulness, and there can be no shame: if you don't yell, the chaufer is likely to blow right past your stop.
Don't be fooled by the frightening speed at which the micros travel - you do not actually arrive quickly to your destination. They provide an excellent opportunity to develop your "sleep-anywhere" skills, listen to music (with caution: keep your mp3 player and cell phone well hidden), perfect your sense of balance, or soak up the warmth of many, many bodies, all a tad too close for comfort.
Two hours a day in this weaving, rushing, death-defying mass of smushed-together humanity, and you may begin to understand what it is like to really, truly be Limeño.
question: essay 2
are we allowed to write ourselves into our writing for this essay #2? what I mean by that is, even though it isn't a personal essay, can the author (that's me) be present? for example (and no, this isn't what I'm writing) can I say, "when I first met Prof. Renfroe, he was..." or something like that??
sunshine and puppies
since the last few entries were sort of whiney/bitchy, here's a happy one. things I actually like:
so yeah, I can do things other than complain. Fancy that!
- reading (my own books on my own time)
- studying the following topics (without the pressure of grades and deadline): African studies, postcolonial studies, literature, theology, latin america, sociology, refugee and human rights issues, etc.
- being a complete and total dork: my boyfriend and I have a book club-y thing together: we read the same books and talk about them. We'll be together over Spring Break, and have two more Vonnegut books to dig into, hooray!
- babies. babies, toddlers, infants, little kids. love them. would nanny for free, except (a) I need the money and (b) it pays pretty well
- freedom to do what I want, when I want
- travel, other cultures. I've found that I'm pretty adaptable (no real culture shock anywhere I've been) and I love it
- adventures and the outdoors (cruising down the Amazon on a cargo ship, trekking through the Andes, and hopefully soon: hiking up the NC coast from SC->VA, the MST, the AT, the PCT, moving to Eastern Europe, Mexico, back to Peru...)
- helping others
- my intended
- learning other languages
- traditional and tribal cultures
- incessant blogging for Creative Nonfiction!!
so yeah, I can do things other than complain. Fancy that!
For some (anti)inspiration!
This week's inspiration comes from a Mr. Tyler Durden. If you don't know who that is, rent Fight Club. Or, since this is an English class, I guess you could read the book.
You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're
not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not
your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
The problem with this is that it doesn't exactly inspire me to do my work. I mean, if I'm not my khakis, it serves to reason that I'm also not the bachelors degree for which I am completing so much mindless busywork (no, not for you, Renfroe. I'm thinking more along the lines of that detesable requirement known as Core412).
Yeah, yeah, so I'm not actually gonna drop out or anything. Hooray pressure and obligation, my nemeses that keep me here!
work? why the hell would i want to do that?
I've decided that I don't want a job. That's not to say that I want to sit on my ass all the time and do nothing (although I do sometimes have that dream). There are lots of things I want to do. But, very few of them involve getting paid... as a matter of fact, I'd rather not get paid for most of them. It's not that I don't want the money. I just don't want the freedom of my actions restricted by a job description. For example, I'd love to do sociological research within immigrant and refugee communities. I'd like to continue working within refugee communities, period. But I don't want to be tied and bound and obligated and pressured by what I'm being paid to do and what I'm not.
And, I am absolutely unexcited by the idea of working every day and each week looking forward to the weekend when I can have "my time." I mentioned this to my mother, and she said something like, "well, working all week makes you appreciate your freedom more on the weekends." shoot me now. my freedom? that's what I don't want... to be bound to something in which I don't feel free, with the exception of 60 hours each week (starting Friday evening). And everyone knows its not really 60 hours, because by 4PM on Sunday you're dreading and preparing for the following morning, when the whole routine begins again. So really, its only 48 hours that are "yours," 48 hours of complete liberation before you once again have to play the game to prove that you are, in fact, worthy to continue living. And all because they locked up the food. (don't ask. if you really want to know, read My Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. Seriously. read it.)
Okay, okay, that's a total downer, I know. I will concede that some people do manage to find something that they love, for which they can get paid, and they are thrilled to begin each week anew because it's just so damn rewarding and fulfilling. And I don't doubt that I will have that, because I won't have anything less; I simply refuse. What bugs me is that I have to worry about getting paid for it. I want to serve my community, teach ESL, work in refugee camps, make the world a better place. Can't I be left alone to do that and not have to stress over how I will eat at the end of the day?
And, I am absolutely unexcited by the idea of working every day and each week looking forward to the weekend when I can have "my time." I mentioned this to my mother, and she said something like, "well, working all week makes you appreciate your freedom more on the weekends." shoot me now. my freedom? that's what I don't want... to be bound to something in which I don't feel free, with the exception of 60 hours each week (starting Friday evening). And everyone knows its not really 60 hours, because by 4PM on Sunday you're dreading and preparing for the following morning, when the whole routine begins again. So really, its only 48 hours that are "yours," 48 hours of complete liberation before you once again have to play the game to prove that you are, in fact, worthy to continue living. And all because they locked up the food. (don't ask. if you really want to know, read My Ishmael by Daniel Quinn. Seriously. read it.)
Okay, okay, that's a total downer, I know. I will concede that some people do manage to find something that they love, for which they can get paid, and they are thrilled to begin each week anew because it's just so damn rewarding and fulfilling. And I don't doubt that I will have that, because I won't have anything less; I simply refuse. What bugs me is that I have to worry about getting paid for it. I want to serve my community, teach ESL, work in refugee camps, make the world a better place. Can't I be left alone to do that and not have to stress over how I will eat at the end of the day?
essay 2
so, about this essay #2... I'm utterly uninspired.
Well, thats only kind of true. There are things I want to write about, but they are all so serious... if only I could have taken this class in some lighter, funnier time in my life. Unfortunately, everything floating around in my head right now is just sorta heavy. Death... no, you don't want to read about that. Poverty... you already read about that, and although I have a million stories, I don't want to beat a dead horse, since it's the same audience. Et cetera, et cetera.
Sorry folks, it'll be another serious one. Different topic, of course. No preaching, I promise. It's just not a laugh-and-tell-jokes kind of semester.
Well, thats only kind of true. There are things I want to write about, but they are all so serious... if only I could have taken this class in some lighter, funnier time in my life. Unfortunately, everything floating around in my head right now is just sorta heavy. Death... no, you don't want to read about that. Poverty... you already read about that, and although I have a million stories, I don't want to beat a dead horse, since it's the same audience. Et cetera, et cetera.
Sorry folks, it'll be another serious one. Different topic, of course. No preaching, I promise. It's just not a laugh-and-tell-jokes kind of semester.
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