One side screams praise and the other tyranny. The blasted country has a spinal cord filled with puss and snow. A snow screen in between classes hides my misty-fied face. Misty, like Pokémon. Chuckling with my hereditary laughing sickness. Chuckling as the snow licks my lips. Pitter-patter, walking, walking, walking down the long and terrible path, while all around me coughing fills the air. They’re sick. The students of this fine institute cough! as they trod with sickness. Meanwhile, my head is bent; my back arches up sudden-like and bellowing white-noises the coughs. The beautiful assembly of noise outside Carney, inside Boston College, envelops me.
Snicker, snicker. I accidently trip someone, but I pretend that just for a second I am a mad man, tripping the diseased students, who are full of hope, but who must temporarily endure a skip of fate, a sick day. The weather tells us this, and the weather tells us that. Who controls the weather? How is it telling us things? Well whether or not we believe it, I don’t control the weather today. I am just a man. But the Scarsdalean Kings will visit this town, and then, oh yes then, they shall control the weather. Upon their arrival my face will unveil and shuffling along, we will laugh with our hereditary disease. Upon their arrival we’ll have tea. Maybe green tea? No. Black tea. Our tongues will become turgid with tea, inflating them to near bursting points. Then we’ll laugh at my evil deeds, pretending, just for a second, that I am a mad man, poisoning them as they laugh.
I wanna be Scarsdalean. Let me join the movement.
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