Sometimes, I dream that I am a narwhal. I dream that my glorious narwhal horn slices through the bitter waves of the arctic seas--sometimes, I dream that I frolic with my narwhal friends. And we hunt. In my dreams, I am a vegetarian narwhal. I prepare elaborate seaweed and plankton dishes for my narwhal friends.
The other dream narwhals appreciate my cooking skills. I have many dream narwhal friends.
Is narwhal meat delicious? If narwhals are beautiful, should we eat them? Can we eat beauty? Is beauty delicious?
I just realized, as I write, that a narwhal has phallic connotations. Doesn't that sound like a fancy way of saying a narwhal horn resembles a giant dick?
My narwhal obsession seems disturbing now; almost as if a monomaniacal sexual fixation. Maybe I should obsess over something more gender neutral--like lemurs.
Let's be honest though: lemurs are really fucking lame. And they're covered in fur. If my animal fixation reveals subconcious desires then I don't want to be a fucking furry.
My train of thought is interrupted by a text-email from collegeboard. My train of thought can be interrupted this easily, as I am a child of twenty-first century technology and my attention span is
It is a math question. I will boycott it.
The only person who will read this blog is Maria. I hope. Unless she sends it to the admissions offices of whatever universities I apply to in an attempt to sabotage my college acceptances. Bitch would.
I don't know how to end this blog so here is a picture of Barry Manilow. He's pointing at you.
