Welcome to Boston

This city confuses me. I walk around campus, and I smell dog shit, but I never see it. It’s like it exists somewhere in the ether, piles of dog shit buried behind the veil of the dream world, with only their stench bleeding into reality. There are also far more cigarette butts on the ground than in ¬†California, and far more runners than at home (I’m the only runner on the ground, usually hyperventiliating). These are two things that probably shouldn’t exist at the same time, and yet somehow, in Boston, they can. Health nuts in California have to do the whole sha-bang: running, weights, no smoking or drinking, kale chips, motivational youtube videos. But health nuts in Boston can pick and choose. I like this place.

There isn’t much difference between East Coast kids and West Coast kids, except for one thing. East Coast kids love Chipotle. In this godless age of internet games and unnecessary piercings, Jesus has been replaced by Chipotle. I expressed that, being from California, I’ve actually tasted good Mexican food, and Chipotle is just average. They came at me with stakes. I didn’t say it was horrible! I didn’t say it was mediocre! I said it was average. And they looked at me like I was the Anti-Christ.

The Chipotle gods are displeased with you...

The Chipotle gods are displeased with you…

The city has welcomed me with open arms. MIT held frat parties all week. At one, a girl fell out of a second story window. Last evening, there was a shooting at the school. I looked for it on the news, this kind of thing would be all over the town patch in my old county. Nope. Apparently shit like this just happens at a city college. Who cares if a few college freshmen nearly get shot? There’s too much competition for jobs anyway.

Local kids have taken up a new passtime: terrify international and out of area students with completely true stories about winter. “My grandfather had Alzheimer’s and went out into the snow in just a onesie and slippers. We haven’t seen him since.” “Once, my dog’s pee got frozen outside and he was stuck with leg in the air, attached to a tree by a pee-icicle for the rest of the blizzard.” But they could honestly just tell me about the size of their winter coats and I’d shit myself.

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