I wish I was like you, easily amused

Every Sunday for the last few weeks, I’ve gotten in the elevator and been greeted with footprints all over the inside elevator door, even at the top of the door.  I’m guessing the door is about 7 feet high.  Ahh college drunkeness.  I love it.  My question is, how did they get to the top?  I’m pretty sure no one can jump that high.  And even if they could, they’d break their head open on the ceiling of the elevator on the way up.  I’m thinking handstand, which is pretty impressive for a drunk.

A couple months back, I submitted two pieces to Stylus, the annual literary publication here at the University of Maryland.  It’s a pretty competitive journal with a lot of high quality writing, so I’m not surprised that neither piece was selected.  The thing that made me laugh was that it was an email with an attachment named “letterofrejection.doc”.  Maybe I’m the only one who thinks this is funny.  But not only am I not good enough for your publication, but you’re going to rub it in my face.  For those people that are not so in love with themselves–you know, the already unstable aspiring writer who’s insists he needs to be on llelo to be creative and is a rejection or two away from jumping out of their fifth-story window–this could be a crushing blow.  I guess those over at Stylus aren’t blessed with the gift of tact.  Oh well.

Anyway, today is Chinese New Year.  The year of the pig.  One of the few redeeming qualities of February (most years) is the red envelopes stuffed with money that we Chinese get from the married couples in the family.  It’s gotten better in the past few years because my cousins are getting married.  Means more money for me and another reason to stave off marriage for an extra year or two.  Although, I’m pretty sure any woman with half a brain would reject that reason.  Goong Hay Fat Choi.  Lycee Doew Loy.  Time to get some drinking money kids.