At least you made it home alive, Terry.
Last night I prayed at the porcelain altar.
I remembered that I spent most of my time in college, between problem sets, in a dynamic equilibrium consisting of an elevated state of inebriation and wishing I was dead.
…or maybe theoreticians like you should stay out of the lab.
Like one time, we decided to carol all of Caltech with the main verse of “Terriers are My Favorite Animal.”
This is why you cultivate an abusively low tolerance for alcohol, Terry
After about two dorms it became, “Terry is my favorite animal. Terry weighs about 20lbs…”
Just make it end.
And by the time we finished at Ruddock House, it had pretty much become a solo: “I weigh about 20lbs. I help the aged…”
Please, please, I promise I won’t do this again.
That’s when J— got the idea that we had to protect all the eggs in the house.
What comes after bargaining?
We raided the place for all the “safe sex” condoms.
I shouldn’t have eaten anything.
Then we into every refrigerator and proceeded to individually condom every egg we found in there.
Was that just my liver that came out?
Yeah, I know it sounds hilarious.
Uh oh. This is the part where parts of your body haven’t been told there is nothing left to eject.
But imagine you lived in Ruddock House and needed a hangover breakfast and found all your eggs individually condomed.
Note to self: Alcohol is the devil.
I’m glad I lived in Page House.
I wish I was dead.