I am back at the homework work'a work-work. Listening to Andrew Bird and chipping away at room-mate #3's sourdough creation. The work is grading other student's analytical history essays about "outsider control of Aboriginal tradition" or some such. So far its a blast. Makes one wonder how kids can get to 3rd year uni without learning how to cite properly. Jesus H.
Anyway last night was at the birthday party of a friend who admitted that night that he tried coke for no better reason than "I went to Boarding school." Which is cool I guess, just unexpected of a guy so neat and polite, you know?
And for some reason (maybe I dreamed about this last night?) I was remembering that time in Mexico when we were going through a toll booth onto the highway in our big van of teenagers and the guards asked us to pull over so that they could go through our bags. Our authority figure assured us that these guards were the "good guys" and there was nothing to worry about, which didn't make me any less nervous of an older man pulling out my dirty undies and giggling. Either way. They turned out to be very respectful and professional and yakity yak. By the end of the inspection they were all laughing and relaxed and they let this one girl we were with hold their massive machine gun and get her picture taken with it. Strange times in Mexico, man.