
"Hi. Would you mind if I picked up the apples on the ground?"
I returned to my dorm with a backpack full of half-rotted, worm-eaten, delicious fruit.
My belly size being a limiting factor in this equation, I decided to process these apples into applesauce. I finally succeeded in convincing my RA (room advisor) to check out the kitchen key from the front desk and let me use the stove. A jar of applesauce provided enough palm-grease.

Six inches below the womanly heart, so find we...Spleen, seat of courage, whence the tyrant who thereon sitteth orders his underlings to pluck up the rosy fruits and process them righteously!
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