* Have you ever visited a FEMA trailer? Everything is miniature. There’s a mini-stove, a mini-table, a mini-bathroom and a tiny cubbyhole dungeon with two baby-sized beds for the kids. Had the hurricane hit five years earlier, I would probably be living in a trailer in St. Bernard Parish with my mom, my younger brother and our 117-pound dachshund named Shatze. As it is, it only takes three or four strides for the dog to go from one side of the trailer to the other. And I’m talking about an animal that has short, stubby T.rex legs, without the talons. I’m so happy that I’m not in high school anymore.
* Graduating is scary, especially when your degree is in the dying art of print journalism, or some other field that’s on the decline. I have a feeling that, for the next five years or so, I’ll be working in small towns and will master the art of cow tipping as a form of Friday-night amusement.
* THE STOP SIGN AT CALHOUN STREET AND ST. CHARLES AVENUE SERVES NO PURPOSE. Please make it stop. Not literally.
* I don’t stalk Dr. Ross. But if I had known about his classes before my last semester in college, it would have been a possibility. I already can’t go within 500 feet of Dr. Lorenz, which is difficult when I’m always in the Communications/Music Complex.
* In theory, a class based on Harrison Ford’s films seems interesting and fun. After taking that class, I’ve concluded that Ford’s movies are crappy. He plays the same character most of the time, and the film “Mosquito Coast” made me want to use a blunt object to end my life.
* After you turn 21, there’s nothing to look forward to. People begin being unimpressed with your birthday. I turned 22 this week, and while I got lots of funny, vulgar presents, I think the time is swiftly approaching when I will stop telling people I’m getting older.
* I’ve heard pretty bad things about FEMA, and I’m sure that most other native New Orleanians have horror stories to tell. I, however, waited until the last minute to apply for aid. Within five days, FEMA workers had helped me fill out paperwork, inspected my damaged apartment, visited my new apartment, turned in the inspection report and deposited money in my bank account. I have no complaints. I’ve come to the conclusion that FEMA works better for procrastinators.
* I wish that other organizations, such as the IRS or Loyola, worked better for procrastinators.
* My roommate and I got a delivery at our apartment for someone named Ryan, who had a birthday last week. After letting the basket sit on our porch for a couple of days, we opened it and got a bunch of chocolate and popcorn. Thanks for not telling your friends where your new address is, Ryan.
* I was warned not to talk about anal sex in this column. The fact that someone had to warn me in advance not to talk about it is really funny to me.
*You totally are only reading this part because you saw the phrase “anal sex.”
