Saturday, December 31, 2011

New Year's Eve

Buon giorno! Bonjour! And hello!

Also Happy New Year's Eve!

Just wanted to check in and say that I am now back in Nice!

Unfortunately, I can't really elaborate on that too much because the French like their exams the way the Virginians do. After Christmas.

So I can't devote too much time to sorting my photos and organizing my thoughts from the 10 day excursion until a little later. Maybe as a procrastination break. I see that happening.

Until then, here's something to occupy your thoughts until they can revolve around me again:

In 1386, a pig in France was executed by public hanging for the murder of a child.

Be back soon.

Amitiés :)

UPDATE: The title of this post does not mean I approve in any way of this movie. I do not.

UPDATE: I feel like every time I look at that movie poster I see an actor that I hadn't seen before. Like Halle Berry. I had no idea.

UPDATE: This movie is ridiculous.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Christmas Vacation

It's beginning to look a lot like freaking Christmas.

Right now, thousands of miles away, a mother and her daughter are boarding a plane. A plane that will take them far far away. Far far away into the arms of a lovely lonely little girl--longing to see her family, itching to go to Paris, and trying really hard not to pee from excitement.

So this new Christmas adventure inevitably implies that I will be absent from the blogosphere for the next 10 days. (Huh. Blogosphere isn't underlined in red. That's surprising.)

I know you guys are sitting at home; you're sad 'cause you feel like I'm abandoning you. Well, don't be sad! You know why? I'm gonna come back with great stories! All for you!

Also, it's Christmas, get off the computer. Go talk to your grandma. Go make a gingerbread house out of Oreos. Go choreograph a dance to "Under the Sea" with your little cousins. The internet will be here when Christmas is over. But will Christmas be here when Christmas is over? Probably not.


Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let's get back to blogging!
(I imagine myself saying that with a Swedish accent. "Less git back ter bloggin!")

-a very French man yelling at his very English friend

2. The other night, I went over to Adelaide's room (a friend from Italy) with Zara and Ricki to say our goodbyes for the holidays. Ade made us some hot chocolate. Unfortunately, it tasted like an oil spill. You see, we didn't have a large quantity of milk, but that didn't stop her from using the ENTIRE box of hot chocolate powder. IT WAS SO VISCOUS. It wasn't even a drink anymore. Ricki was eating it with a spoon. And I was chewing it. I trusted her too, because Adelaide is Italian, and all Italians can cook anything and it's delicious. But it was like drinking a disease. Adelaide, you are the exception.

3. Today was laundry day. And I did a crapload of laundry. (And, yes, crapload is a very scientific measurement.) I amassed all my clothes and carried them downstairs to the laundry room.

I'd like to take this moment to point out that there are exactly 2 washers and 1 dryer for 3 residence buildings. I realize that 1 + 2 = 3. But I don't think that's how it's supposed to work.

When I got to the room, there was a guy sitting at the table. But there was a washer open! I set down my bags to get out my money. As soon as I turned around the guy jumped up from the table and started putting his sheets into the empty washer. "Aaaaaaalrighty then. I guess I'll come back later." So I left. Later, when I came back down, as I was putting my first load in the wash:

The Laundry King: "Aren't you going to say hi?"

Me: "I'm sorry?"

The Laundry King: "Most of the time when people come into a room, they will say hi. It's common courtesy. Blah blah blah."

Me: "Oh, uh, sorry, hello." (I'm still angry at you. I hope demons come and take all your left shoes.)

Then he continued asking me questions about my life and telling me his whole life story, about his brother who married a woman from the Bronx and now he drives a taxi in New York and how he used to work at a bank but he didn't want to do that anymore. Dude, I don't know your life!

Well, then the dryer was constantly occupied with a very long queue, so I decided to just hang up my clothes around my room. This was very strategic. Like Tetris. But with wet T-shirts. Now, there are clothes everywhere. I feel like a hippie.
But I smell piny fresh. (Maybe also like a hippie? A woodsy hippie anyway.) Honestly though, I don't think my room has smelled this good since I moved in.

Okay then.

That's all I have.

There's really nothing else.

But I will leave you with this:

♬ It's almost Christmastime
Bah rum bum bum bum
I'll find some words that rhyme
Bah rum bum bum bum
I'll give this year a toast
Bah rum bum bum bum
And I'll recap the post
Bah rum bum bum bum 

My mom and sis in France
Bah rum bum bum bum
Try not to wet my pants
Bah rum bum bum bum
Get off the internet
Bah rum bum bum bum
Zey are zee best baguette
Bah rum bum bum bum

Don't make me drink it please
Bah rum bum bum bum
It tastes just like disease
Bah rum bum bum bum
My laundry gives me strife
Bah rum bum bum bum
Dude, I don't know your life
Bah rum bum bum bum
Rum bum bum bum 
Rum bum bum bum 

Me and my drum.


Amitiés :)

Saturday, December 17, 2011


It's that time of the year again. The end of the semester. And it wound up being better than I thought: starting off kinda rocky, but, by the end, I'd reduced it to mostly oversized pebbles.

When I think about the end of the semester, I think about Christmas.
When I think about Christmas, I think about Santa.
When I think about Santa, I think about humans.
When I think about humans, I think about my family!
And what better tribute to Santa, my family, and all the humans than by taking the time to answer a question from a concerned family member.

I was recently approached by an anonymous family member regarding my scholastic habits. Her question: "Molly, when do you go to class?" Since I never talk about it.

Well, anonymous family member, the answer is: all the time. As a matter of fact, every day. Well, every day that's not the weekend. (But that seems obvious.)

With regards to blogging, I've run into the inherent problem that storytelling often faces: namely, the tendency to focus on isolated incidents. Since I'm telling you stories about my life here in France, I have to whittle them down to the really meaty ones. (Stories dealing with music, murder, and mayhem often make the cut. Also puppies.) Essentially, classroom stories just aren't particularly interesting to tell.

But since it is the end of the semester, I thought I'd pay homage to a particularly story-tellable class: THEATRE.


Let's start with Day 1, shall we?

Day 1. I got to my classroom a couple minutes early. Seriously, 3 minutes max. Because I was in that constant state of "new-girl confusion," I saw a class in progress and immediately thought it was mine. (I realized pretty quickly that this, in fact, was not my class, but for reasons of confusion, embarrassment, and maybe a little pride, I stuck it out.) So I jumped in, probably an hour and 57 minutes late, and joined the voice class in singing "Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, something something t'oublierai." It was super fun.

My actual class started about 10 minutes later. Again, I felt very out of place, but this time for a very different reason. Apparently there was some sort of all-black dress code that everybody knew about except the stupid little foreign girl who looks really obnoxiously colorful right now. And I wasn't just wearing colors. I was wearing COLORS.

I'd like you to think I responded positively to this sudden decrease in the variability of my visual spectrum.

But I did not.

"You look like radioactivity."

In the weeks to follow I donned my blackest black clothing, which by the end of the semester had turned sort of grayish since I wore the same thing pretty much every week.

I should take a moment to introduce my professor. His name was Triffaux.  He was a very "French" little man with graying hair who confused me a lot. One thing he would do, when we would do exercises on stage, is he would raise his hands like a conductor and then move them around "directing" us. No words. Nothing but the slight twist of his left wrist in a counterclockwise motion. Or the lowering of his arms while simultaneously raising his right eyebrow. It was very cryptic.

It didn't take long for the classes themselves to start to run together. So I will separate the following accounts by activity, not day.

1. Monologue Day
Despite what I said earlier, I do remember that this was still the first class. We each had to get in front of the class and recite a monologue so Monsieur Triffaux could gauge where we were acting-wise. I did mine in English. I yelled at them a lot. I'm sure most of them don't speak English. It was probably pretty upsetting.

2. Look Ma, I'm A Statue Day
One day we made statues with our bodies with a partner. Then we put all the individual statues together to make one big statue. Aaaand lucky you. Someone took pictures.

If you look closely at picture #4, you'll see my professor doing a weird hand thing. Weird hand things were sort of his thing.

3. Creepy Horror Movie Mask Day
I would have drawn pictures for you for this day, but, I'll be honest with you, I couldn't bring myself to draw panels and panels of the creepy horror movie mask. The creepy horror movie mask was a blank white stage mask that we had to buy for an in-class exercise.
And it was creepy. And it was horrible.
The object of the exercise was simple. To look really hard at your mask. To become the mask. To put on the mask. To lay on the floor motionless with the mask. To feel the mask in your belly button. To roll around on the floor and be reborn with the mask. To crawl around like a toddler with the mask. To look at stuff "for the first time" like a sand flea with alzheimer's with the mask. To learn to walk with the mask. To realize you're stranded on a desert island with the mask. To see a boat off in the distance with the mask. To try and get the boats attention with the mask. To fail miserably with the mask. To fall into deep depression with the mask. To accept that this is your life now with the mask. To ignore the guy trying to build a raft with the mask. To try to form a civilized society with the mask. To resort to cannibalism with the mask.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't that simple.

4. Pants On The Ground Day
This was by far the most stupidly stereotypically French moment I've experienced in Nice so far. One day, with about 30 minutes left of class, someone decided to turn on some music, and, since I'm convinced there are no such things as lesson plans in France, everyone just started dancing. Which was fine and all. I coped.

I bet you a million dollars, unless I've already told you this story or you looked at the panel below, that you will NEVER guess what happened next.

Yes. About 6 of the girls straight up took their shirts off. And continued dancing. It was so alarming.
I . . . I'm out of words.

5. What About That Project We Never Did Day
This one's pretty self explanatory. There was a project we were assigned the first day of class, and then no one ever talked about it again. We never did it. I don't really know what happened to that project, but no one seemed too concerned.

6. Scene Work Of Death Day
For our final, we were paired up with other students to perform short scenes on the last day of class.
I was paired with the Grand Duke of Miscommunication.

Before I go on, I feel compelled to interject. Going back to that thing I said about storytelling lacking a certain continuity, the same applies here. I feel like I can't really express to you the gravity of the frustration I felt when working with this guy by simply giving you snippets of the past several weeks. They simply won't suffice. You need the frustration. You need to imagine first that you own a cuckoo clock, and you just realized it goes for 61 seconds every minute. And the window that you broke at the beginning of the semester by trying to force it open doesn't close all the way now, so the sun wakes you up every morning at 7. And Fran Drescher is hanging from your ceiling dripping water on your face every 30 seconds with a pipette. (Or is it 31 seconds?) Now, hold onto that frustration. And I guess I'll just list some things that almost literally ate my skin off.

-We couldn't meet any other time besides between 2 and 5 on Saturday to rehearse. He was always busy. (Okay, dude, you're a theatre major. What could you possibly be doing every single day?)
-We always had to rehearse in my coffin of a bedroom. Because his apartment "no no no no won't work."
-He thought it was "cute" that I lived in a residence hall. "It looks like Titanic."
-He didn't speak English. Which is fine. But he didn't speak French very well either. He spoke so fast and so incoherently that I found myself oftentimes ignoring him completely. This did not help the situation.
-He texted the way he spoke: jumbled, incoherent, text-speak that made absolutely zero sense.
-He never had any money on his phone and would ALWAYS ask to use mine to call someone.

By the last day of class I was ready to explode. Our exam was at 3:30, and we were supposed to meet at 1 to do some last minute touch ups. He called me the day before.

Partner: I can't meet before the exam. I'm busy.

Molly: Okay.

Partner: mumble mumble mumble

Molly: Pardon?

Partner: I'll just see you in class.

Molly: At what time?

Partner: 3:30.

8am the next morning:

Partner: Where are you?

Molly: In bed?

Partner: Oh mumble mumble mumble

Molly: Pardon?

Partner: I'm outside my apartment. Can you meet in 10 minutes?

Molly: Uhhhh . . . I have to shower and get ready? 40 minutes.

Partner: Okay.

20 minutes later:

Partner: *Knock knock*

Molly: Are you kidding me?

Partner: mumble mumble mumble

Molly: I'm not ready yet, (numskull)!

Partner: Okay, well I'll just see you in class.

Molly: Okay?

Let me clarify, my French was not the problem. My French partner was the problem.

So I finally got to class, he notified me that he had chosen to go first, and we were on stage in 5, 4, 3, 2, . . .
I was furious.
Then when we finally started the scene, I felt like time stood still. And he was pacing around me for what felt like FOREVER. (This has nothing to do with time, he just paced for like 5 minutes before saying his first line.) I felt like he was all around me all at once.

"Headscarfed" is not my best look.

Then he had 2 other scenes with 2 other girls (for fun I guess . . .). One of them was the exact same dialogue that we'd had. It was literally the exact same scene. EVERYTHING WAS THE SAME.

". . . this looks familiar."

I just chuckled to myself. I was so over it.

Ugh. I'm sorry if my frustration is making me ramble incoherently. I know what it feels like to deal with people who ramble incoherently. It's a terrible thing. It really is.

Longest blog post ever.

Is now just a little bit longer.

Amitiés :)

Friday, December 16, 2011

Dial M for Murder

So I may or may not have murdered someone in my sleep 2 nights ago.

I woke up yesterday morning and found unidentifiable red smudgy marks on my floor that looked suspiciously like blood. (If I kept ketchup in my room, I would be much less concerned.)

As it stands, I don't know where they came from.

The best I can deduce I did some murdering in my sleep.

I've looked all around my room, which took maybe 8 seconds, but I see no sign of a body. It's difficult to determine if there was a scuffle, as my room always kind of looks like something large and heavy scuffled there.

do have a cut on my toe. But I can only assume it was from the struggle that comes with murdering someone.

I was told maybe it was my own toe blood on the floor. But that would have been too easy. That's what I probably wanted me to think. I'm very crafty when I'm sleeping.

I've decided to keep a low profile for the time being.

If you see anything suspicious, probably just keep it to yourself.

Amitiés :)

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Blades of Glory

"Revenons à nos moutons." (Let's get back to our sheep.)

So as I mentioned in the previous post, I was on my way into town to celebrate Zara's birthday among the whimsical Niçois Christmas festivities. We grabbed lunch at the campus dining place, which I hadn't actually been to yet (not missing much there), and then we went into town to go ice skating! Again!

Oh wait. But before we went ice skating we got mulled wine. Which was delicious, yes, but I can't help but think maybe that wasn't the best idea. In retrospect, probably not. But in the moment, consequences are of little . . . consequence. So after we finished our wine, we then proceeded to strap blades to our feet and slide around on a frozen, frictionless sheet of ice surrounded by children. We make good decisions.

(But nothing bad happened. We were fine. Everyone's fingers remained connected to their hands. No need to worry.)

After ice skating we wandered through a magical forest of snow-covered trees amid sleighs and giant chairs and other Christmasy things. We then proceeded to the ferris wheel. Which was a lot taller than I thought it was going to be.

Foreground: magical snow tree forest,
behind that: German village,
behind that: ice rink!

We then went back to the dorm for pizza and wine, but I was feeling a little under the weather, so I called it an early-ish night.

So that was Monday.

Then yesterday, the girls and I went to see a German/French theatrical production thing that our friend Ricki was in. It was mostly in German. I mean, which is fine. I don't speak German. But it was still really entertaining. Basically this woman had died, and her family was arguing over her will. I made up a lot of the dialogue in my head. But . . . well we won't get into that here. I'll be here all night.

The point is, it was so fun. And, Ricki, you did such a great job. Hilarious. Just really funny.

Another fun night.
Other Miscellaneous Musings:

1. I had to send a fax yesterday. Now, you might be asking yourself, "what's a fax machine? Like . . . like a fake tax machine? Wait, what's a tax machine?" Well, before you hurt yourself, let me tell you. A fax machine is an old fart piece of technology that we used to use to send documents using a fancy combination of the internet and a telephone number. Unfortunately, they've been deemed "old-fashioned." Here's my piece: when we decide to deem something "old-fashioned," that usually implies that we've invented something else to replace it. In this instance, the only thing it implies is that it's really really impossible to find a fax machine. I finally found one in a hotel lobby that I unknowingly wandered into like a dehydrated vagrant. I think she just felt sorry for me. She probably only pretended to send the fax. Just so I wouldn't die from disappointment. Library, internet café, and post office? You're on my naughty list.

2. On the way back to my dorm I found a puppy store. A puppy store.

3. I realized that when my mom and Amy come to France (IN FOUR DAYS!), it's gonna look suspiciously like I don't have any friends. 'Cause everyone is going home within the next 72ish hours. So, I mean, I have friends. They're just . . . not here right now. You JUST missed them, you really did. I swear.

4. The other day I was texting someone, and I said, "Oh I'll be there in 5 minutes. Or 2 minutes. Eh, tomato tomato." She was like "what the hell?" And I realized, to her, it just looked like I said "tomato tomato." Because I did. So I tried to clarify by saying "you know, like 'tomato tomato, potato potato'" which did little to help the situation.

5. Today I dropped my cell phone RIGHT NEXT to a sewer grate. RIGHT NEXT TO IT. I would like to take this moment and thank my lucky stars it didn't fall in. I don't think I could have handled that. Yet another reason why you should NEVER walk on sewer grates. Also biking. Don't bike over sewer grates.

Keep your children away from electrical outlets.

Amitiés :)

Monday, December 12, 2011

Ice Princess

Did you know . . . that I share my birthday with a NATIONAL holiday? Pretty cool, huh?

I have recently been informed that August 12th is National Middle Child's Day. I mean, you just can't make these things up. Or maybe you can only make these things up? But I am not. This is a real day.

Too bad I wasn't born on August 6th though, National Wiggle Your Toes Day. I mean, that's cause for celebration. Ooo! Or October 14th, National Be Bald and Free Day. Because every other day we subjugate our nation's bald people to ridicule and physical violence. Stupid baldies. Makin' the world a smoother place.

Speaking of birthdays, today is Zara's birthday so we're going as a group into town to celebrate with Christmas-themed birthday festivities! (Also today is National Ding-a-Ling Day. What . . . what does that even mean?) So I'm very excited about that.

Allllso speaking of birthdays, this past Wednesday was my friend Maria's birthday (also National Cotton Candy Day . . . which is ironic because Zara and I made jokes about Cotton Candy while we were there. Because she calls it something different. Obviously. Also, I'm not sure if that's ironic. Honestly, I don't really know what ironic means anymore.)

Anyway, we went with a big group of people into town to celebrate her birthday among all the Christmas festivities. First we went ice skating! Outside! This was my first time ever ice skating outside. I felt like I was in New York. Except maybe 1/8 the size. In fact, this ice "rink" was so little, we started getting dizzy going around and around.

We look a lot colder than we actually were.

Now before I go on, Ice Skating, I have a bone to pick with you. You're great fun, you really are. But like baby carrots and anything by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, there is a limit to my ability to enjoy you.

This is a graph where x is the amount of time I've spent ice skating and y is my overall level of enjoyment. If you look, you'll see when I first begin, the level of enjoyment is increasing proportionally to my skating ability. Pretty soon there's a plateau and a slight dip as the realization that I've been going around in a circle for 30 minutes kicks in, bringing forth an undeniable monotonous existence. But you can see the level of enjoyment does manage to increase yet again, brought on by the creation of reckless ice games, like "whiplash" and "I can do a triple axel" and "push me backwards!" But then, you'll see, there's a distinct point where feelings of "MY FEET ARE ABOUT TO FALL OFFFF" kick in, and I don't care how much fun sliding around on frozen water is, nothing in the world is more important than getting off the ice RIGHT NOW.

But, as with baby carrots and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, I never learn. And I will continue to ice skate in 1 hour intervals until my feet finally do fall off. Starting tonight.

(I did manage to remain vertical the entire night though. Vertical Molly is a much better skater than Horizontal Molly. She also has fewer bruises, warmer hands, and a greater sense of self worth.)

Then after we went skating, a few of us went and got warm drinks from the little German village and hung around until dinner. ( I tried mulled wine for the first time! It's basically just hot wine with lemon in it. And maybe cinnamon. It was very delicious.)

And then we went to dinner at La Favola, the same restaurant where I got that really yummy pizza earlier this semester. I got another really yummy pizza with eggplant on it. Mmmmm . . .

Then I went back to my dorm. And continued working on my archaeology project.

Which brings me to story #2 . . .


Archaeology. (Which I only recently realized has two "a"s. The French word only has one. But I feel like that second "a" is superfluous really. Maybe "a" just didn't like being one-upped by "o." A's a very jealous vowel. He doesn't like when other vowels get more attention than he does.)

Anyway, my archaeology presentation. I was supposed to give a 25 minute presentation to my classmates on Friday on ethnoarchaeology. This was, how do you saaay, daunting.

While I was presenting, I felt a sense of . . . um . . . insurmountable self consciousness?

Everybody hates me. This project is so boring. That girl who just went, her project was so good! And so interesting! About Egypt! Who doesn't like Egypt! But not ethnoarchaeology. Who doesn't like ethnoarchaeology? All of these people. Wait, where you goin', girl in the front row? I'm not done yet. Oh God, why are you leaving?? This is a disaster. My slides have like 3 words on them. Oh look, that slide's blank. Well, that wasn't supposed to happen. Ah well. Screw this.

But I did it. And by the time I was done, all my classmates' feet were really cold, 'CAUSE I ROCKED THEIR SOCKS RIGHT OFF. Apparently. 

I talked with my teacher after class, and she told me it was really good (?)! At first I thought she was kidding. I thought, "That is not a funny joke. I am too fragile for not funny jokes." But she wasn't joking! I couldn't believe it. I was shocked. And not like "humble" shocked. Like "what are you talking about, I have no idea what I just said" shocked.

I usually like to leave you with some sort of resolution. So, um.
Don't drink contaminated water.

Amitiés :)

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Eight Legged Freaks

Hey, everybody. My name is Molly, and . . . I'm arachnophobic.

Hi, Molly.

I've been spider-free for about a week now.

You see . . . here, let me take you back.

--------------------* TIME MACHINE *--------------------

It all started innocently enough. I was washing my dishes one night after cooking a particularly predictable pasta dish.

Big whoop, right? Some things you just can't prepare for.

I was trapped. I'd been cornered, caught off my game, thrust headfirst into a situation that I was not too keen on entertaining. This spider had cast its web into my life, and I didn't know whether to scream, play dead, or punch it in the nose. (No one prepares you for these situations. Sharks and bears get all the tv time.) Plus my hands were really soapy, immensely affecting my speed and agility, thus rendering any size-advantage I had completely useless.

But I had to remain calm. For the spider and I, we were not alone. Not to sound scary or anything. There was just someone else cooking in the kitchen. But this person, despite my initial squeals of terror, remained COMPLETELY UNAWARE of our imminent danger.

She just stared at me. Like it was my fault I'd squealed. No help. Nothing.
You suck, kitchen girl, you really do.

I tried to laugh it off, in a feeble attempt at kitchen bonding.

Still nothing.

So I was forced against my better judgement to continue washing my dishes.
I didn't enjoy it.

But don't you think for a SECOND I took my eyes off that spider. No way, José. I look away, that spider jumps on my head, now I have spidery egg hair. You say that's not a jumping spider? I say it's just 'cause he hasn't tried yet. Spiders are quick learners.

A million years later, our kitchen buddy decided her slop was well done enough to leave me well alone.

. . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .


"Now, boys and girls, if you'll look to your left, you'll see one of our more prominent specimens, Homo Freakouticus. We can distinguish this particular specimen from related species of the time based on the array of multicolored zigzags you see here and a general air of unrelenting terror."


It was about this time I started questioning my moral beliefs. Essentially I had a little Sarah on one shoulder and a little McCall on the other.

Sarah: "KILL IT!"

McCall: "No!! All life is sacred!"

Sarah: "Spiders don't have souls, McCall. They don't count."

McCall: "What if it has a wife? And babies?"

Sarah: "Oh! Better yet, you could buy the spider a guppy, wait for it to fall in love with the guppy, and then KILL THE GUPPY WHILE THE SPIDER HAS TO WATCH!"

McCall: "All life is sacred!"

I tried, McCall, I really did. 

But you know that "30 and a half foot pole" they sing about in The Grinch? Yeah, I didn't have that. Saving required touching. And that was just not an option.

I pondered my next move.

I had limited tools to work with. I tried the cup. You see where that got me. The sponge? No, the spider would just crawl inside it and lay eggs, and then I would have a spidery egg sponge. Plus I still hadn't washed my dishes. My dishes . . . THE PLATE!

So I did what any normal person would do. I squished the spider with my plate.

Just kidding. I tried fanning the spider into the sink.

And do you know what happened? Probably not, because no one talks about this EVER! That spider straight up levitated. Like "away-from-the-wall" "I'm-not-standing-on-anything" levitated.

I call it the Chris Angel of Death.

Seriously, why have I never heard of this before? LEVITATING SPIDERS. As if spiders weren't scary enough, now they don't even need the ground?? I was under the false impression that if my face was not on the floor or on a wall or maybe next to a tree, then my face was safe from spiders. SURPRISE! Spider face.

Well, at a certain point, my Hulk senses kicked in, and the details are fuzzy. But there are still some things you just can't forget. With the power of wind, I forced that spider into the catacombs of the French plumbing system.
What a watery grave it was.


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