Sunday, May 3, 2009


First off, I'm 21! Hurrah! To celebrate, I roused a Mongolian horde composed of 30ish friends, and conquered a small bar called the Orient. As you can imagine, it was an easy victory, and I was granted several free shots for my leadership (and/or birthday). It was a night to be remembered (or not).

Now, on to
strawberries. I've found, throughout my abroad experience, that I've always taken certain fruits for granted. For some strange reason, strawberries hold some strange allure to me, and my few experiences with them in Australia have been rife with infatuation, lust, and sensory exhilaration. This isn't something I can easily explain, but I'd guess that this happens to a lot of people studying abroad, with certain foods/things. To put the extremity of my delicious obsession into context, I've prepared this short narrative:

Dusk approaches King's Park like a wounded moose, as a haze of red gathers low in the sky. We wander the flowered trail, ignoring the night's shadowy advance, as young people do. I glance about, admiring the cut of the mulch, when I see something that sets my heart racing. A glimmer of red in the shade of an old gnarled eucalyptus tree. A bright red strawberry, glistening and ripe. My eyes dart about, searching for the trace of the picnic from which this impossibly passionate fruit had escaped. Nothing. Without any further pondering, I gently pluck my discovery from the ground. Aside from a few specks of dirt and pieces of quality mulch, the strawberry is flawless. I hold it under my nose and allow its sweet perfume to flood my senses. My mind reels as my heart explodes with passion...

This is getting weird. I need to stop
. Anyways, I gave it Patten, who washed it off, and we split it and ate it. I don't think I would do that with any other random fruit stuck in mulch. More recently, one of my roommates has purchased a carton of strawberries. I discovered them in the fridge yesterday, and flipped out (made this sound, "huhhhhooooohhhhhhhhhhhheeeeaaaahhh"). I've since engaged in a covert strawberry stealing operation. I doubt I've ever been sneakier. Basically, I wait for him (or her, I don't really know whose they are), to fall asleep, I tiptoe into the kitchen, gently lift the plastic wrap away from the strawberries, select one so as my theft is unnoticed (sort of like Jenga), and then ever so carefully replace the plastic. I'm not sure how much longer this can go on, but the strawberries have awoken something deep inside me. I'm not sure what it is, or what I can do about it, but I thought I'd mention it.

I'm going back for one now. Wish me luck.
Oh, has anyone ever read the story "The Little Mouse, the Red Ripe Strawberry, and the Hungry Bear?" Come to think of it, that's probably where these feelings stem from. That was like my fave book growing up. Damn good book.

No worries,

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