Lakeland Dreams
Greetings, people of the interwebs! We have SO much to discuss!
For starters, I moved! I relocated from my home in sunny Saint Cloud, FL, to the quaint college town of Lakeland to live on campus for my last semester of college at Southeastern University. WHY did I decide to move on campus for my very last semester of college after having commuted for the rest of my entire college career, you ask? There are some questions I dare not even ask myself these days, old chap, and THAT is one of them. Suffice it to say that as the semesters of my degree wore on and I progressed from sophomore, to junior, to senior, to fifth-year senior (Don’t judge.), my presence was required on campus more and more, so that by the time my final semester arrived, I was spending considerably more time in Lakeland than in the town of my birth, and it only made sense to live in the Land of Lakes for the end of my college experience to make the completion of my degree that much less stressful.
And so I made my move to Lakeland, a last semester senior living in a dorm for the first time. I packed my life up and put it in my sister’s minivan and off to Lakeland we went.
I’m sure you can tell from the above photo that I’m a very methodical packer, as most Irish-Italians with a touch of feisty Welch in them are. With my blender, my paint set, half my wardrobe, ¾ of my scarf collection, a pair of sunglasses for every day of the month if it were February on a leap year, and a straw fedora that I’m still not completely convinced suits me, I became the newest inhabitant of Suite 107 in the Destino dorm building.
I was checked in by an RA (Resident Advisor) and asked a series of questions about myself for the Residence Hall to keep on file, to have as reference in case they ever have to chat me up before confronting me about a rumored drug problem or streaking habit, I assume. The questions were pretty routine, favorite color, candy, soda, and the like. I was answering confidently until the fated question left the mouth of the RA at the computer and made its way to my poor, unsuspecting ears.
“Favorite movie?”
As any Irish-Italian with a touch of feisty Welch in him or her will tell you, there comes a time in every person’s life where he or she must stand confidently in front of his or her peers and Resident Advisors and say,
“My favorite movie is Little Women, starring Wynona Ryder and Susan Sarandon.”
However, on that August day in Lakeland, Florida, this Louisa May Alcott fan answered simply,
“Ummm… Hotel Rwanda?”
HOTEL RWANDA, ISAAC?!?! Really?! The heart-wrenching drama starring Don Cheadle about the Rwandan Genocide of the early 90s?! Poor form, Isaac. Poor form.
What was I supposed to do, just explain with confidence to the RA I had known for less than five minutes that I cry every time Laurie proposes to Jo in the forest and she rejects him? To tell him that sometimes, when I’m frustrated, I say with angst, “FRY the Hummels!!!” even though I’ve never in my life met a person with the last name Hummel? To make a pie chart explicating to him that I’ve seen this movie enough times to know that the grown-up Amy (played by a different actress than the younger Amy, who is played by a pre-Jumanji Kirsten Dunst) wears the dress that Meg almost wears to Sallie Moffat’s coming out ball several years earlier, which was a very thoughtful choice on the part of the costume designer?
Perhaps, but I didn’t.
And then when he asked for my birthday, I thought, “WHAT IF they ask for your favorite movie so that when it is your birthday they hold a party for you and make everyone watch it?!” If they made all the guys in my dorm watch a movie about African genocide for my birthday, I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror and thoughtfully re-draw my side part again.
But it was too late. The deed was done. I would forever be the guy whose favorite movie told the story of the murdering of millions of innocent people in the Rwandan countryside. The Hootoots and the Tootsies would forever have their place at my birth celebrations.
It was at this point I decided that in my last semester of college, living in D107 at Southeastern University in Lakeland, FL, I would be who I am, for better or for worse: an Irish-Italian with a touch of feisty Welch whose favorite movie chronicles the lives of four girls growing up in Civil War America, looking for identity and love and Meg’s missing opera glove (which we all know ended up in John Brook’s coat). And this decision made for what would become the best semester of my college career. And THAT is something I will never regret.
To be continued.
Lakeland Dreaming,
Isaac.
————————————————————————————————————————–
Did you enjoy this writer’s blog? Consider subscribing to receive an email whenever a new post appears on this blog by clicking the “subscribe via email” button on the side of your screen, and never miss a post by this blogger again!
The Dog Days Are Over.
Summertime is a peculiar, beautiful thing. It is the time for driving fast with windows down and music blaring, acoustic guitars, tambourines, hot pinks and baby blues, vibrant yellows and lemonades and cantaloupe and hot dogs, flip-flops and She and Him, Colbie Caillat and Bob Marley and Sheryl Crow and Sixpence None the Richer. Summertime is for dancing and laughing and lazy days by the pool, Gabriel García Marquéz and late night bonfires on the beach.
It is in summertime that our youth is most celebrated, no matter our age.
This summer has been filled with all the right things that a summer should have:
The beach (Look at our three umbrella-friends! What a cute trio!),
Theme parks,
Flavored water (A delicious peach-lime water, to be exact.),
Chicken salad,
Sunglasses,
Flip-flops,
Jorts,
Birthday parties,
Concerts,
Weddings,
Strawberry Daiquiris,
Pirates (I didn’t tell you this story? Another time, I suppose.),
Planking (Or at least trying. I won’t show you the state of these sculpted bushes shortly after my planking attempt.),
Dancing,
Mexican Food,
And, of course, Katy Perry. 🙂
But alas, the dog days of summer have come to an end as fall approaches with all of its wonders. I have loved this magical summer in the sun, but I have learned in life never to despise the changing of the seasons. And so it is with joy that I put away my flip-flops and flavored water and get out my kicks and Diet Dr. Pepper that my mom says will give me a brain tumor but I still drink because it makes me feel better about myself. I just ask one thing:
Let me wear my jorts a few days longer?
It IS Florida, after all.
OKAY OKAY MOM I’LL SWITCH TO TEA,
Isaac.
23.
Isn’t September a wonderful month? The fall decorations are out in the stores, the Pumpkin Spice Latte is being served at Starbucks, and guys named Isaac James Anthony are turning 23! Overall, a good month.
I’ve always enjoyed the number 23. When I was young and the thing to do was have a favorite number, I decided on 23 because it was the number of the incomparable Michael Jordan.
“Isaac, I didn’t know you were into basketball!” you say?
I’m not, but I did see Space Jam more times than should have been socially acceptable in my youth.
I also played basketball for six years in elementary school. Are you shocked?
My first game, I spent 30 glorious seconds shooting, unguarded, at the other team’s basket while my team waited for me at our own basket. It was like a dream.
So yeah, that happened, and here we are, and now I’m 23! And one year closer to being able to drive a rental car.
A guy can dream, can’t he?
Bottom line: I like my new age. What’s not to love about 23?
I’ve never cried when someone gave me 23 pieces of candy.
It wouldn’t be a terrible thing to win 23 dollars in the lottery.
William Shakespeare was born on the 23rd of April. Ain’t nothing wrong with that!
Of the mysterious numbers in LOST (4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42), Jack’s number was 23. Yes, he had an anger problem and a martyr’s complex, but I always wanted him to pull through and be successful!
And who doesn’t love Psalm 23?
Yes, I do believe this will be a good year.
23, I got you.
-Isaac.
Heaven Can Wait.
My great grandma Vicki just turned 100! Isn’t that wonderful? Since the day she arrived off the boat from Italy with her husband some decades ago, she has been spreading fabulousness throughout the larger United States, and she certainly hasn’t slowed down yet!
(She’s the one in the middle.)
Adorbs!
When the fam celebrated Grandma Vicki’s 100th Birthday with a “Great Centennial Jubilee,” my mum flew out to California to be part of the festivities. In an effort to make conversation while sitting with Grandma Vicki one afternoon, my mom asked, “Grandmother, what do you think of heaven?”, expecting a description of some sort, what she might imagine it to be like.
When asked the question, my grandmother turned squarely to my mom and answered, without hesitating,
“Heaven can wait. Life is beautiful.”
Please excuse me while I go to my room and quietly sob to Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” on repeat. I’ll be back in 3 hours.
Something I have learned from living in one city, working and going to school in another, studying in another country, and spending the summer in yet another country, is that there are crappy people everywhere. Sometimes we’re the crappy people. And crappy people do crappy things. And crappy things can sometimes make life seem pretty crappy itself.
But if my 100 year old grandma, who has no doubt seen and experienced much more crap than I have, having lived nearly five times longer, believes that life, that living, is beautiful, then there must be something there.
And there is.
Life, the human experience, with its ups and downs, its victories and disappointments, is beautiful, and is worth living, and for a long time.
Just as there are crappy people and crappy things everywhere, there are also beautiful, good people and beautiful things everywhere. And if we don’t make an effort to recognize these people and see the beauty in the world, we’ll waste our lives away, waiting for heaven, waiting for our days to pass so that we can experience something more. I have been through situations before in which the only consolation I could find was that one day after this life has ended, pain and suffering would cease, but I have come to realize that this source of comfort must be taken in smaller doses than one might prefer and be balanced with a healthy love of living. If I don’t, I’ll miss the epic adventure that is being a human, experiencing pain and joy, connecting with people and with life.
Life is beautiful, and heaven can wait. And I plan on making it do so.
Now, back to Mr. Dylan and silent sobbing.
Living,
Isaac.
All I Want for July Is Christmas!
Don’t you just love the Christmas season? I personally feel that there are few things more magnificent than the month of December (except maybe November, when all the holiday feelings are there without the stress of the December rush, ya know?). And if the holidays are so special, why have them only once a year? Good question, right?
Well this month is my mom’s birthday. Have you met my mumsipoo?
This is my mum. Isn’t she the cutest?
You needn’t answer; that was rhetorical.
But if you did answer, you’d say yes, right?
I thought so.
Since my marmie is so special, we decided to throw her an **extra** special birthday party this year. We chose the theme “Christmas in July.” Isn’t it delightful?
Before reading on, start playing this:
Upon entering the house, guests, dressed head-to-toe in Christmas colors (Which include but are not limited to red, green, white, and the metals, if you were at all curious. If someone tries to convince you that navy or “midnight blue” is one, they are a fibber and a fraud and shouldn’t be allowed in your home unattended.), were greeted by the best holiday music of yesterday and today, a fake fireplace on the TV, and halls decked with boughs of Christmas-y wonderfulness from top to bottom! There were holiday desserts, finger foods, and candy everywhere!
Everyone brought a $1 gift for a Christmas gift exchange as a part of the night’s festivities.
What was my gift, you ask? A glitter kitty, naturally.
What is a glitter kitty, you ask?
A glitter kitty starts out like most other kitty statues, relatively plain. But with a little faith and a lot of glitter, even YOUR kitty statue can become…
A GLITTER KITTY!!!
Anyhow, it was a wonderful party, full of holiday cheer and the celebrating of my little marmalade.
We made white piña coladas and red strawberry daiquiris (please reference above holiday color guide) from scratch that were the perfect mesh of July and December!
We couldn’t get enough of them, clearly.
We ALSO made chocolate covered strawberries!
We had a hard time getting enough of these, as well.
The gift exchange was a success!
Landen, my little nephite, picked the same item he brought, the little twerp.
Samiyah, my niece (who gets her sense of style from me, I’d just like to state for the record) was stolen from and had to choose another present not once,
Not twice,
Not thrice,
But FOUR times, the poor dear. There is no withholding in a gift exchange among loved ones. It’s best she learns this now.
Cheri got the glitter kitty!
Her elation was nearly palpable.
And then my little Lily sat in a bucket, and nothing else seemed to matter anymore.
I suppose at this point, only time will tell if there will ever be another party as splendid as my mommipot’s “Christmas in July” bash.
I’ll definitely let you know if there is.
Christmas-colored Jell-O, anyone?
Walking in a Winter Wonderland,
Isaac.
A Life Worth Blogging About. also, Kate Winslet.
People have been asking me if I plan on continuing my blog now that I have returned from Honduras. My mom, for example.
Also, my aunt.
This was a question I had to ask myself, as well. I will inform you of my thought process with a series of bulleted questions:
- What if the power never goes out?
- What if I don’t fall out of any trees?
- What if everyone flushes the toilet at my house?
- What if Destiny’s Child never has a reunion tour?
And other important blog-related questions like these.
I had some doubt that perhaps my life outside of Honduras wouldn’t be exciting enough to blog about, that perhaps my adventures would lessen in scale and wouldn’t be blog-level interesting. Who would read a boring blog?
No one, that’s who.
Except for you, mom. Love you.
And then, like always happens when I am faced with life’s conundrums, I thought of Kate Winslet.
Surely I’m not the only one who does this, correct?
Oh Katiepoo, I just love ya. BBM me?
In The Holiday, Kate’s character, Iris, deals with a similar, though totally different issue than me. The person she was in love with got engaged, I’m afraid of having a boring blog. We’re all just trying to make it through, really.
Anyhow, she got some advice from a friend that changed my life when I heard it. Observe:
Did you catch that?
How often do we view the quality of our lives as something determined by the opinion of others? We are all leading ladies! Well, you know what I mean.
The point I’m trying to make is that I had to come to the realization that my life, whether I am in a far away country from my own, climbing trees and learning new languages, or in my own hometown going to college and returning my library books late, is an adventure, and is worth blogging about.
And yours is, too, in case you were wondering. 🙂
So to sum up, I will be continuing my blog, and I hope that you will stick around and go on this adventure called the human experience with me! As for my part, I will do my best not to blog about boring things.
Like my lunch today, for an example.
It was Subway. I got the Spicy Italian and had them add some sweet onion sauce to mix things up a bit. It was more than I could have ever hoped for.
But I won’t blog about things like that, for your sakes.
If I’m Not Done Watching Clips of Kate Winslet Movies on YouTube in Two Days Send Help,
Isaac.
Ninja Cleaning Ladies, Ants, and Pre-Toasted Bread: Things I Miss That I Did Not Know I Would Miss.
I have been home from Honduras for a week now, and the expected amounts of nostalgia and longing for the city I spent my time in and the people I worked with has set it, but with that, something completely unexpected has come with it! I am finding myself missing things that I NEVER IN MY LIFE thought I would miss! And, in an effort to stop blogging about poop, I have decided to share these things with you. So, without further ado, I present to you all,
Things I Miss That I Did Not Know I Would Miss: An Annotated List by Isaac J. Anthony.
1. Ninja Cleaning Ladies
I spent my time in Honduras working at a school, and the cleaning ladies that worked at the school were no ordinary cleaning ladies. They were NINJAS, I tell you! I would leave an item sitting for, I make no exaggeration, less than the 60 seconds it takes to make a minute to go do something, and upon my return, the item would be nowhere to be found. I would go searching for it and find it five minutes later on a shelf in a room somewhere on the grounds. Now while I was in Honduras this was somewhat of a frustration, but now that I have come home, I miss the adventure of it! Now, when I walk out of a room and return a few minutes later, all my items are exactly where I left them. So boring! There was something so adventurous about never knowing where my belongings would end up, like an eternal scavenger hunt! Sometimes I get so frustrated with my lifeless possessions that I reprimand them, exclaiming “Don’t you want to be free?! Don’t you want to live your life?!” But they just sit there, motionless, boring.
2. Ants
Oh Lord. If I have not yet told you, which I’m sure I have, there is no question in my mind who runs the country of Honduras, despite what one might hear in the media about power struggles our coups: it’s the ants. The ants are EVERYWHERE, and they do WHATEVER they want, because there is nothing we can do to stop them and they know it! By sheer number they overwhelm us, strategically taking what they desire without suffering a single repercussion for their actions. If the ants want the ziplocked, Tupperware-protected sugar supply today, they will simply overcome all the protections we have put in place and take their spoils. We are powerless against their schemes. And every night, as I went to sleep, I would see the ever-present, steady stream of ants marching along the wall above my bed, my living headboard. Now, at home again, I oddly miss these little thieves in the night. The walls are so still and I feel so lazy not having to do anything to protect my food. Life without ants can be a little lonely, sometimes.
3. Danielito
This is Danielito.
Danielito is the son of one of the aforementioned ninja cleaning ladies, and he and I had a rough start. He is cute, yes? Well he’s a VILLAIN.
Perhaps Danielito and I were enemies in a former life or something, I don’t know, but I tell you today that he wreaked havoc on myself and my fellow interns through my six weeks in the country. He was sort of like an ant, a little, evil, ant, who likewise took what he pleased and got what he wanted. But sitting here today, looking at his little picture, I miss that little rascal. Evil? Yes. But cute? Oh so cute.
Come back to me, Danielito. We’ll be friends forever.
4. Pre-Toasted Bread
Why don’t we have this? So convenient! So tasty!
5. Being the Only Person with White Skin
Honduras, as I am sure that you are already aware, is a Central American country, and the majority of its inhabitants have beautifully tanned skin. I, as you have probably noticed, don’t. Because of this severe contrast between the color of my skin and the color of the skin of most of the people around me, I definitely “stood out” among the crown.
But being home among a much more diverse population of people of all skin tones, I miss my snow-like singularity. As I would walk onto the public bus and every head on board would cock in my direction in perfect unison, watching my every move as I made my way to my seat, I felt like “Who’s That Guy” from Grease 2 was playing and I was that mysterious stranger who everybody wanted to know. This would only last, of course, until I tripped in the aisle and sang an operatic aria on my way down, thus shattering the illusion.
But still, I can’t help but feel like every person with white skin that I see now is stealing my thunder.
I CAN’T HELP IT, I SAY.
Toasting Bread Without Any Ant Friends to Keep Me Company,
Isaac.
MONTEZUMA’S REVENGE!!! and other worries of a traveler returned home.
Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin, known also a Montezuma II, was the ruler of the Mexican city of Tenochtitlan in the early 1500s. During his rule, his people encountered European conquistadors for the first time. When he lost his Kingdom to these conquistadors, it changed the course of Mexican history forever.
In modern times, it is believed by some that Montezuma is still enacting his counterattack on those outside his country that ruined his empire. It is said that he does this by inflicting those who enter his country with what doctor’s call “Traveler’s Diarrhea,” an illness that results from having traveled to another country and encountering pathogens that, if one had grown up exposed to them, wouldn’t have an effect, but to someone who is being exposed to them for the first time, can affect one with terrible indigestion and all the words that can be found in the Pepto Bismol theme song. This malicious enactment is called “Montezuma’s Revenge” by believers in the myth, as the former leader is “getting his own” from beyond the grave at every “gringo” that enters his homeland.
Well, I am here today to tell you that this myth is absolutely and totally true, and that Montezuma in his rage has expanded his territory to the other countries of Central America, including the lovely land of Honduras.
AND IT IS A WRETCHED REVENGE, INDEED.
I do not wish to explain how I know or can verify that this myth is true, so I kindly request that you not ask.
I SAID DON’T ASK.
Now if you’ll please excuse me for a moment, I have a Reader’s Digest to finish.
If I’m not back in ten minutes please go on with your lives without me,
Isaac.
Home.
“Joven! Joven!” called Mrs. Paiz to the nearby cook, having clearly emerged as the mover and shaker of the evening. She had to raise her voice above the laughter and busy chatter that surrounded the table. “Joven! Una mas baleada de pollo, por favor!” she instructed the worker, the cook nodding and returning to her work behind the counter. The order successfully altered, Mrs. Paiz returned her attention to the story Angel was telling about the situations his cousin always seems to find himself in, his wife Santa adding with great excitement the important details that Angel was leaving out. Carlos chimed in with his tales of life in El Salvador before having relocated to Honduras recently, while his wife Reina, always the picture of grace, sat contentedly next to him, making sure that their daughter Kelli and the Paiz’s youngest daughter were enjoying themselves during all this mayhem, as well. I sat next to Mrs. Paiz at the makeshift head of the three nonsimilar tables we had pushed together in order to all fit, agreeing emphatically as she reminded Tiffany and I that the next time we are in town we must stay at their house, laughing at the stories, offering my own anecdotes when appropriate, and stopping at least once every five minutes, almost out of breath at how full my heart felt in that moment.
It was one of my last nights in San Juan before leaving for Florida, and a group of us had decided that we would go together to Doña Blanca’s restaurant so that Tiffany and I could get our last baleadas before departing. We arrived in typical fashion, laughing, slightly disorganized, not sure who ended up in which car before leaving and hoping that everyone got there. We pulled our tables together and placed our orders, each person needing to be brought to attention to make their request after having lost themselves in conversation only moments before. We would laugh, eat, and tell stories for the remainder of the evening.
During this meal, I couldn’t help but reflect on my time here in San Juan with all the people I sat there eating with. I have spent the last six weeks of my life living with these people, becoming involved in their daily lives, getting to know them, their stories, their dreams, their likes and dislikes, and I have fallen in love with each and every one of them. And as I sat there among the people who have been like family to me during this trip, reminiscing with them and planning for the future with them, I thought to myself,
“This is home.”
This city in which I have fallen off of trees, tutored children in English, learned more Spanish, and become an integral part of a network of families, has become home for me. And I thought, what is home, then, if a city of which I had little previous knowledge before this year can become such an intimate part of my personality and story so quickly? What is home, if people whom I did not know two months ago can be as close to me as family? What is home if my heart already aches for this country even though I have not yet returned to the States? What is home?
“Home,” I thought as I listened to Joel regale us with the details of the soccer game we had all attended that weekend, “home is where love is.”
If there is something more that is necessary to make four walls, a city, or a relationship, into a place of residence, safety, acceptance, and growth, that something must be love. And in this world, whether it be in the house one grew up in, a group of friends which have become like family, a relationship of complete loyalty, or a group of families in a small town in a small country in Central America, where we find love, we find a home.
This week I return to my home in the States, and I am elated to see my family, my friends, and my Florida again, but I know that I also have a home in San Juan Pueblo, and whether I return next month, next year, or never, that home will always be there, around that table of friends, laughing, listening, and breathing deeply the air that night, which was filled with the smell of warm baleadas and love.
Home,
Isaac.
WHOSE POOP IS THIS?!?! And other questions that arise from communal living.
The quirks of communal living are neither few nor far between, and here in our little house in the Honduran countryside, we are no exception to this truth. One of our more notable happenstances has arisen from the state of our house’s plumbing.
You see, in Honduras, it is neither couth nor wise to flush toilet paper down the toilet. The recommended course of action, which I HIGHLY recommend, is to place your used paper in the trash can beside the toilet. The reason for this is that, be it for reason of water pressure, pipe size, or laziness, Honduran toilets cannot handle toilet paper, and will clog, overflow, or fall into severe depression if toilet paper is forced on them. We all understand this rule in our house, and agree to follow it.
HOWEVER, over the past few weeks, as I have entered the powder room by morn to prepare myself for the day’s events, there has been, consistently, fecal matter accompanied by a sizeable amount of toilet tissue waiting for me in the toilet.
That’s POOP AND TOILET PAPER, PEOPLE.
We have questioned the entire house on who might have been the culprit that so carelessly used and abused our restroom in the night, leaving the evidence to mock each of us in the morning time, but no one has confessed to committing the dastardly deed. “It wasn’t me,” they say. “I would never do that,” they say. I stand here before you all today to entreat the question,
“WHO IS THE PHANTOM POOPER?”
Who could possibly be this midnight defecator? Who would do such a thing so consistently and so consistently deny having done it? Let us examine the suspects:
The first suspect is Ms. Danielle Banzon. A lover of Pepsi, raisin bread, and Hannah Montana, Ms. Banzon enjoys photography and YouTube makeup tutorials. She once threatened to take a small child back with her to the United States because he was so cute.
Could Danielle be the Phantom Pooper?
The second suspect is Ms. Sully Marbella Velasquez Reyes. Sully loves her home country of Honduras, her fiancé Patrik, and having her wenis pulled. She once made cupcakes but cut them in half before serving them.
Could Sully be the culprit?
The third suspect is one Isaac J. Anthony. Almost unbearably handsome, Mr. Anthony is known for his charm both in the States and abroad. When the writer of this blog was asked about the character and gastrointestinal habits of the suspect in question, he assured everyone that was at all curious that Mr. Anthony is the model of poise and class, and would NEVER do the deed in question. We the jury feel that it is safe at this time to say that Isaac is not the culprit. For the sake of a fair trial, however, we shall include him among the suspects.
Could Isaac be the midnight defecator?
He isn’t.
But he could be….
But I’ll just tell you right now that he isn’t.
The fourth suspect is Ms. Tiffany Sanchez, no middle name (suspicious, yes?). Ms. Sanchez loves Broadway, powdered drink mixes, and singing harmony like it’s melody. She once dropped a French fry on the floor.
Could Tiffany be the Phantom Pooper?
The fifth suspect in the case is Chiqui, loyal friend and hardworking school handyman. He has been inside the house once, and not at nighttime.
COULD CHIQUI BE THE CRIMINAL IN QUESTION???
The sixth and final suspect in the case of the drive-by defecation is Mr. Joey Rihn. Mr. Rihn enjoys farting in public, getting second helpings, and world peace. Joey once ate bull testicle.
Could Joey be the person we’ve all been looking for?
If anyone reading this blog has any leads or inside information that could help this case, please do your duty as an upstanding citizen and tweet me. Thank you in advance.
And now, speaking of clandestine crime, I have something of my own to confess. We have been together on this journey for several weeks now, you and I, and I feel that I can trust you all with this information, for I am fairly certain that my roommate, though he asks about the blog and has sat patiently while I read it aloud to him before publishing it, has yet to find the actual site in cyberspace. Ok, here it goes:
A few days ago, I ACCIDENTALLY USED MY ROOMATE’S LOOFA.
…
And it had been a long workday.
As soon as I realized, I immediately returned it to its proper home, but by then it was too late, and the loofa was already alive with my essence. It all happened so quickly, I can’t recall any details of the moment, except that I finished my grooming in silence and spoke not a word to him about the happening.
And neither will you.
That is all for now.
Silently,
Isaac.
Isaac. 