Look around you. The world is two big bowls pressed together with a cranberry vinaigrette salad in the middle. Your head is a bowl for the squishy computer we call the brain. Your hands are just flexi-bowls. Eyes? Bowls. Your heart is a bowl for the slippery blood which breaths emotion and heartburn into you. Bowls, even, are fashion (see below).
Dear reader. I think so much. It gets uncomfortable in my head with all those thoughts taking up so much space. I put my thoughts in poems so my brain doesn’t get squished by the weight of childhood memories consisting of me holding a stick in various locations and reruns of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Poems are like little glass jars filled with pickled organs. And the organs are so pickled, they’re almost translucent. As Bryce Shivers and Lisa Eversman of Portlandia fame once said, “We can pickle that.” That’s just beautiful. I made a custom embroidered pillow on the internet which says “We can pickle that.” I didn’t buy it though. One day, the whole world will be pickled. You can just dump stuff in a poem and then forget all about it. And then get famous while people theorize about your sexuality.
“Lit Lit is a segment here on The Thrill in which I get someone lit (yup) and then that someone chooses a work of literature and gives me a summary and quick discussion of the themes of that work” (Raffa 2017). We’ve got Cream of Focaccia (a self-proclaimed “NNabovokov” expert and enthusiast) here to talk to us about Lolit(lit)a. Due to some technical difficulties, this Lit Lit is a little nontraditional.
Parents weekend is truly a time. A moment in time. A collection of moments in time which we call collectively a weekend. What a nice invention that humans made. They made the week and then they said, heck, we have this dangling clump of time like a juicy juicy Golden Delicious and we gotta do something with it, heck, or else nothing will be done with it. Someone said we can call it the end! And everyone agreed that was a terrible idea. But because the guy who suggested that was just so very pathetic everyone decided to squish the week and the end together and call it a weekend. What should we do with it? a voice rose from the crowd. In a peal of genius, somebody responded nothing. A wave of spearmint feeling fell over the universe.
Meredith Rupp ’19
“I got this tat when I was 18 and I had just graduated high school. My mom got the same one in the same place. The phases of the moon represent how she, I–we’re–both moving into different phases of our lives (ew) but how we always are under the same moon!”
Look at my dog. He’s the most beautiful ugly dog on this side of the space/time continuum. I love my dog. He keeps me warm. He keeps me young. He smells like feet and sunshine. His name is Rhubarb, which is short for Rhubarbara, which is short for Rutabagababushka. Named after my grandfather. My dog could beat your dog in any contest. Spitting for distance? Setting cakes on fire? Eating hay? I’ve never seen something eat so much hay. A lawnmower with saliva. Wonderful. Continue reading