Like a Russian Teen in Bleached Denim
Roommate 1 wants to read my blog. He’s been leaning over my should reading the old folks home stuff, but there’s nothing good over there, just the left overs that were never good enough for public consumption in the first place. Like the burned steak that no one wanted.
Like that time (2.5 hours ago) when he burned his esophagus on hot food. First he microwaved it and it wasn’t hot enough, so back in it went for another round of radiation therapy. When it came out, steaming I might add, he dove on in, hence the “burned esophagus.” I don’t know if that is a viable injury but he just came over and asked me if I’ve ever burned my esophagus.
He and I are doing the hirty-girty dance and it makes me laugh. He just makes me feel better. He does this thing where he says: “It’s not your fault.” I believe it’s called being supportive. I don’t know, supportive is a foreign film to me. All kinds of strange sounds that are inaccurately translated by someone who doesn’t speak the language. In the end I end up missing the major plot points.
He wants to read my blog. Point made, Czech.
I was making a point, roommate 1, supportive. Point made, Czech.
He ate his food at such an extreme temperature that he burned his esophagus. Point made, Czech
This man is a lawyer. He goes to work every day and does something that clearly takes a certain degree of education. Now here’s what’s worrying: on two counts, he has questionable intelligence, on one count he has shown clear higher intelligence. (You all better say that the sign of higher intelligence is his desire to read my blog.)