It’s 5:30 am, I’ve been asleep for about two hours, and I am completely beyond fucked up. This is unfortunate, ’cause I’m supposed to be driving about 30 unpleasant paleontology students to the field for some fossil prospecting in about 30 minutes. I can’t get a ride to school ’cause my ride is in a worse state than I (it’s true, bless his heart), and I’m thinking I may be too incapacitated to figure out the bus. I know, I’ll bike! About 20 minutes and, say, three whole miles later (so I’m a little wobbly and confuddled, so what…), at least I’m there on time. This is when it dawns on me that I totally can’t drive, the professor I’m slaving for is narcoleptic so there’s no way in fuck I’m riding with him, and it’s shaping up to be about 110 degrees out today. Balls.
It’s a hot summer’s night, somewhere outside Monterrey, Mexico, and I’ve somehow misadvisedly entered myself into a chili-eating contest. Specifically, a Chili Pequin eating contest. Not like, a habañero, or a jalapeño, or anything you know, bland, no, that would not do. Instead I’ve managed to stuff like 47 of the hottest little buggers ever down my throat, and am now being egged on by a pit-crew of geologists (yes, yes, I am indeed debauching myself on a work trip. AGAIN), to which I say “Bring it! I will destroy your chili-eating record!” I know I’ve said this before, but this can’t end well… Read the rest of this entry