I was about to dive into a colorful rant painted with self-pity and woe, but the incessant words falling haphazardly out of my roommate's mouth distracts as it may from articulating my misery. Life is rough. But all jest aside, he does posses the unique talent of 'truly bother'. Everyone encounters these types. They are in the same group of people who must talk a mere inch from your nose. It seems, with those types, that despite our best efforts to politely create more room, they reclaim the lost space with a subtle foot shuffle. It's that type of man I room with today.
Among the titans of talkers, Robert sits at the throne. He has a gifted ability to forget everything he says and hears. The second day as roommates he showed me how to use my lamp. "There are three levels. The third is the brightest." I knew, at that moment, that living with him would be an interesting experience. I am continually surprised.
Consequently, I often read books inside my dusty storage unit. I do paperwork and write letters. Sometimes I even play games with all my boxes and furniture. How can I stack this so it uses only this much room? After a few months I'm disappointed because I doubt a team of scientists, engineers, and movers could do much better. It was then I invented an added twist. I'm trying to arrange it so the unit is vacated in the most efficient way possible and yet also occupying the least amount of space. All this, lest you forgot, because my roommate out talks God's intent for a mouth.
With no one with me at storage, the only reasonable act is to talk to oneself. Thus my days are spent moving the same box several times in one month, uttering into otherwise silence the brilliance of my work - even boldly dreaming of starting a moving corporation that outshines all the rest. All this because I've been instructed at least twice that the third click on my lamp means the bulb shines most bright.
Among the titans of talkers, Robert sits at the throne. He has a gifted ability to forget everything he says and hears. The second day as roommates he showed me how to use my lamp. "There are three levels. The third is the brightest." I knew, at that moment, that living with him would be an interesting experience. I am continually surprised.
Consequently, I often read books inside my dusty storage unit. I do paperwork and write letters. Sometimes I even play games with all my boxes and furniture. How can I stack this so it uses only this much room? After a few months I'm disappointed because I doubt a team of scientists, engineers, and movers could do much better. It was then I invented an added twist. I'm trying to arrange it so the unit is vacated in the most efficient way possible and yet also occupying the least amount of space. All this, lest you forgot, because my roommate out talks God's intent for a mouth.
With no one with me at storage, the only reasonable act is to talk to oneself. Thus my days are spent moving the same box several times in one month, uttering into otherwise silence the brilliance of my work - even boldly dreaming of starting a moving corporation that outshines all the rest. All this because I've been instructed at least twice that the third click on my lamp means the bulb shines most bright.