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Food FightI must admit, I'm not much of a chef
Whether spaghetti, potatoes, polenta or spam
Rattle the pots and pans till I'm deaf
I still can't cook worth a damn
When the steak is supposed to look brown
I somehow manage to make it green
I can't even try to choke it down
Maybe I should watch more Paula Deen?
I think that maybe I missed my true calling
As a maker of poisons and traps
My attempts at confections would have my foes falling
I think I'd make a great spy, perhaps.
It's better then, that I stick to food that's frozen
It's especially hard to screw up
What's that ominous sound from the oven?
I think the lasagna just blew up!
Nine TimesI saw him nine times.
The first time we were both sitting in the room together, getting ready to take the math test that would determine our placement. I was scatterbrained and throwing things around, trying to find the pencils that I had known I would need but had still just tossed in my purse. He was lounging backwards in his chair, looking for all the world as though he didn’t have a single care in the world, including the upcoming test. It annoyed me, that I was frantic and ready to scream, while someone else could be that relaxed.
I tested out of the class.
I don’t know if he did.
The second time I saw him, it was a few months after I arrived on campus. He was the one rushing and frantic this time, running across the square. He was probably late for class, though I had no way of knowing for sure. I was already lost in my own thoughts and ideas, deciding on my major and convincing people that yes, this is what I really want to do with my life. If they weren
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