A Statistical anomaly

My last class at Elon has the misfortune of being all guys. Out of twenty some students, not a single one of them have the burden of original sin. They're also all Business majors and stoners, which makes for a wicked combination in order to give me a superiority complex. Someday in that class I'll talk, but for now my roommate is the only person to have given a right answer in the entire four class periods.

This is a poor way to end my Elon career. Everything I've ever learned about failed relationships has come from listening to Elon women talk before and after class. I was hoping that this last class would break or solidify my long standing metaphor about Elon's female populous. Since I no longer have the ability to test it, let's assume I'm 100% right like always and move on with it.

My metaphor goes something like this: Every woman is a dwelling, and outside that establishment are pieces of baggage you probably never want to open. [I'm not equating women to property, but, uh.... women are property in this metaphor.]

For the moment, we will equate those bags outside the front door to be something similar to 'Emotional Luggage'. Now, as one who has decided to date in Elon, it has become your duty to carry those bags from room to room while within the house. Treat them like a golden Jello mold of your favorite celebrity or family member. Never let them get too hot, never too cold - and don't let anything sticky get onto them. Women, like all well constructed Jello molds, freaking hate it when you get something sticky on them and don't bother to clean it up. Oh, sure! It doesn't matter if they made it happen or not, you have to be the one to clean it up. What did they think was going to happen? Huh? I was going to shoot rainbows straight out of it, while a really good song by The Spice Girls started emanating from my balls? Damnit! You're a 23 year old woman! HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW HOW THIS FINISHES!?!?

I'm sorry. That wasn't about you. Anyway, I only half believe that 'women are houses' things. It's more like a storage locker and then there's something about a mystical key quest. Or maybe female relationships are the equivelent of baking quiche. Ah, fudge it. I'm just pissed that I'm stuck in a class with a bunch of dudes who need haircuts. Goddamn hippies, go get a job. I'm sick of smelling pot on the van rides at 2 in the afternoon.

Reminders for class: Pt. 3 and Pt. 4 have been done forever. It's just that some people don't seem to appreciate the way I can vividly remembers the story. It's probably my fault, since I'm probably glossing over all the details with my hinging ability of being the only total sober one their that night.