All Thumbs

Fellow peasants.
How are things looking on your end?
Collaborated?
Good.
I apologize for being so tragically mute these past couple of days, but anyone who knows me well, and pays attention to the electronic store shelves, has probably figured out that I am holed up in my apartment, playing this game.

In due time.
On the bright side, in the wake of my abscence, I should have a decent review written for it in The Scope next weekish.
Full of my discerned observations, and witty witticisms.

This weekend saw perhaps the best comedy night that we've had to date.
Every superstar that's been onstage so far was in attendance, along with a great number of pulses who came by to watch.
Along with one new guy who described the process of being tested for Clamyhdia.
That part was somewhat unpleasant, actually.
But! I came up with my best adlib ever.
Ever.
I could've kissed Sherri when I later learned that she was the one who unwittingly set me up for it.
But then I remembered that she's swimming with the best diseases that St. John's has to offer.
I hosted and I was deadly.
They paid me. They owe me free drinks.
Who wants beers?!

I stopped into Sherri's house last Thursday after a particularly involved Scope meeting.
She gave me the entire tour, which I thought was novel.
She apologized to her roommate for eating all of the carrots, to which her roommate replied, "Those were yams!"
My favourite part of my stay occured when the cat jumped onto the table, and she, turning from the kitchen counter to see this, scolded, "Logan! Get off the table, ya dirtbag!"
The cat hesitated...
"Logan!"
Then the cat got down.
I felt very at home.
While feeling sexually intimidated.
Because that's how Sherri makes you feel.
Tim Ronan makes me feel the same way.