Sunday, February 6, 2011

Bloggaday 325 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 6

Bloggaday 325 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 6
By David “Cuddling**” Dysart

It’s time to say goodbye, so long, farewell a… avee…
Oh well.
So today marks the sixth* and final Santos Manuel Student Union Observation Paper.

On this, the last post, I have just one more bit of info for you fine folks.
I hate underlining!
You can take you precious little underlining button and shove straight up your
I should probably stop that rant right there. I would prefer to italicize stuff that gets underlined, but my current teacher doesn’t like italicization, so I was forced to bite my thumb and underline this stuff. Now, if you’re reading on facebook, then I don’t think it shows up underlined. I think that site tends to strip the formatting, but blogspot should still have all of it.
Anyways! On to the last bit of description. This one wraps up the last person I observed and the closing of the paper.

Need to play catch-up? No problem! Here are the links to all of the Santos Manuel Bloggadays.

Bloggaday 290 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 1 December 1

Bloggaday 297 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 2 December 8

Bloggaday 304 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 3 December 15

Bloggaday 311 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 4 December 22

Bloggaday 318 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 5 December 29

Bloggaday 325 – SPF PWND: Santos Manuel Student Union: An Observation pt 6 January 5

Away from the congregating masses and befuddled victims of del Toro, the balcony that sits above the floor plan seats a woman. Several tables dot the area and sit at capacity, but amongst the bustling eating and chatting just outside the pub, that woman sits in solitary. The absorbing darkness of her grey sweater paired with the melting blue of deep denim pants and her utter stillness sparks thoughts of random observers and wandering students. “Is she some new piece of art making some obscure point sitting outside the pub?” Rather “Val” is her name or her title, she stays at her table, independent and unaffected by the background. Inky-black slip-on shoes shelter her feet, striving to be mistaken for a pair ballerina shoes’ older, emo cousin. If her clothes offer the marble portion of the statue, her skin is made up of soft porcelain, features fragile to the touch with curls of rubies cascading past her shoulders. She sits inside the reflection of the daylight striking the pub’s storefront windows and seems to shimmer angelically above the masses gripped in their hustle and hubbub.
Finally giving up her staring match with the clock across the room, she gathers up her pink-chorded keys and phone. Her eyes scan the screen of her cell before she sets the pair back down. A beat passes as she straitens her posture and the standing, triangular advertisement that crowns her table. Another beat hangs in the air as she remains at attention. The clock continues to spin before she slides free from her chair, leaving the delicately weighted metal and plastic contraption unmoved. With a swipe, she takes up her phone and keys again and breaks from the railing that separates her from the students downstairs. She takes a quick step backwards and scans the people still loitering around her before she spins to the pub. Val escapes inside the store and out of view from the wandering eyes that occasionally make rounds of their surroundings.
The warmth of the daylight begins to fade and signals for flourescents to pick up the cause of lighting the building. The room grows colder, both to the touch and to the psyche. Night is beginning its daily invasion of the Santos Manuel Student Union and is driving the students out. One by one, the students begin to leave, the new recruits failing to keep up with the fleeing forces. Soon, whole groups of the congregators evacuate the dimming hangout, leaving it a place devoid of the activity that inhabited it only a short time ago.

Listening to
Moneygrabber by Fitz and the Tantrums

Twitter Tag**
Hey, I’m just cuddling with the Santos Manuel, only on Bloggaday

Going faster than a “Reply All” email, websites like mine will surely go your way The twits are tweeting and rss feeding I pray your mouse batteries die, and you take a tumblr Now here’s a little blog, I’ve got to tell I’m not calling you a bot, just don’t botter me

I wanna view like Youtube Shut up and let me show

What’s pickier than pickier? The Piccaday Light me up that web cam and strap a smile on my face Let the pictures hit the floor I’m gonna pack my pixels and I’m gonna go your way

New to the Bloggaday? These are the essential posts to see
158 – Boxer V Brief – Short, concise joke machine and a DYNAMIC ENTRANCE! to my favorite Bloggadays of the Second Trigaday
159 – A Phthalates-filled Sbarro Breadstick – This was just a funny Bloggaday despite the essence being something no one will get unless the look up what a phthalate is
174 – FNtCCA,aToTbDD– While I think it’s clear I rarely EDIT the Bloggaday, this train-of-thought post shows how much I have to FILTER it…
183 – SotW 13 – This one had it all. Pretty much every bit that’s been a major player in the SotW made its way into this one, so it’s a good one to try.
134 – SotW 5 – This particular Song of the Week featured the characters a bit truer to their original concept. After a while, I started liking Tom too much and changed him a bit which caused changes to Chuck.
227 – PWND: TSHBRotCCPS pt16 was some solid fiction content. Plus, that was probably some of the finest Final Thought I’ve ever thought up.

* Yes, folks, I can spell numbers as well. I’m just usually too lazy to do that.
** I actually wrote the clipshows before posting this Bloggaday. The cuddling bit of the Twitter Tag is actually a reference to that. Hey, you should probably go read that. It’ll be towards the end of the Bloggaday

Close the screen, the awesome’s getting out

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