I am well on my way to achieving my dream of becoming a native Kyrgyz. I am currently a nomadic wanderer with only a suitcase to my name. "Why Jenny, WHY?", you ask, gripping the edge of your seat with whitening knuckles. Do not fret, dear readers (of which I have none). I am off to Russia in a weeks time and GW doesn't think it should give me housing. So I'm taking it anyways, the robber barons. Living in South Hall is loverly, and I'm sad to be leaving. There's nothing better than curling up in a room far from people. Not unlike a small yurt.
In other news, I'm leaving Clements International, my summer job, at the end of the week. This means I can no longer say I sell kidnapping insurance and pretend to set up stings to catch the dirty rotten Somalians. Lies. It means I can no longer get paid to hang out on Facebook and Twitter and stuff letters in envelopes. That's esoteric stuff, that is.
Speaking of Good Will Hunting, what a great movie. "Without further ado, come forward silent rogue and receive thy prize." Brilliant. Why don't GW professors talk like that? Right. Because they, like their students, are bitter that they didn't get into Georgetown and have subsequently given up on life altogether. And yes, Matt Damon, I will go eat a bunch of caramels with you.
Back to my bindle/hobo situation. Not only am I an American vagrant, but I am also homeless abroad. Thanks to the Infernal Dance of the Fire Gods in Russia (or so my theory goes), Muscovites stopped worrying about poor li'l ol' me and my love of apostrophes. They had "more important" things to worry about like "their lives" and "breathing". Lazies. And knowing my luck, once the russkies do get around to housing me, I'll end up living with a family in which the father makes Stalin look like a darling бабушка, the mother is an anorexic bitty who calls me fat, and a brood of 12 hooligans circa age 2-6.
Dear ACTR, here is my awful and deadly threat. I won't make another post until you give me housing. Tear Down This Wall!
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