Ode to the Man I Saw Swallow a Cigarette on Middle Path

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where the cigarette went, probably

Tyler Raso

Professor Severus Snape

Magic, Mayhem, and Making Amends (but Not, Like, Urgently)

22 February 2019

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In this paper I will argue that I saw a man (stature of a fully grown corn stalk, backwards baseball cap, not really in a rush, alone) swallow an entire (100% of a) cigarette (lit). The day was Thursday (February 7th), and the time, lunch. I was walking southward on Middle Path, and the subject north. Point of contact: Ransom Hall. The weather was frog degrees and sticky tack was precipitating (lightly) from the sky. This was normal because it was an Ohio winter. I don’t have a thesis because this piece is more, like, exploratory. “Can the human experience truly be captured in language, the construction site of the psyche” (CITE). Someone at the Writing Center told me this paper was “full of, uhm, ideas” and then offered me a complementary candy (but they were out of dark chocolate Hershey Kisses). Because the straw prose of analytical writing couldn’t contain all my feelings, observations, ideologies, methodologies, insecurities, fondness for sea otters, suspicions, jazz music, sobriety, or overdue library books, I’ve decided to continue my paper in poetic form instead.

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Pacifist Fry Pie Wrestling

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they want blood

I must confess. I am a simple man. I like blood, guts, and flaky crust. I know what America wants to see. America wants to see senseless violence, intersecting storylines, and pie. I said to the Thrill Editors, I said “I know what the people want” and they said “what do the people want?” and I said, you know what I said, I said “they want to see FryPie. Wrestling.” A voice broke the silence, “What’s a fry pie?”

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I Drank Out of Bowls For Three Days and Sorry I’m Enlightened Now (But Not Really)

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photo cred: Mollie Greenberg, who would like to say “I think you could associate me with liquids”

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).

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Vaguely Kenyon-themed Poetry Inspired by rupi kaur

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Me, performing a poem

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.

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Lit Lit: Lolita

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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.

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10 o’ clock List: Unsolicited advice from your mother, or unsolicited advice you give your mother?

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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 weekendWhat 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.

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