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April 24, 2008
Sit outside of a Gas-N-Go on a Friday night. Treat yourself to some Cheetos, or RedBull, or whatever your pleasure. But grab a bench, preferably near the door. Poise a notebook, discretely or covertly, whichever is more clandestine, and take note: Socrates had nothing on the witticisms uttered by the small-town patrons after dark:

“Jake. Jake. JAKE! FUCK. Can’t you just come inside like a Normal. Human. Person? (Hiccup).”

Meditate, dear Grasshopper, for Trista from the local VT-echnical Institute is further ahead on the path to Nirvana than your sorry ass, sitting outside of a Gas-N-Go on a Friday night.