David Burroughs rarely knows what’s going on. He likes drinking sweet tea, keeping to himself, and arguing hypothetical’s with himself. He enjoys the works of Saunders and Chekhov and Vonnegut but hates Raymond Carver, don’t even mention Carver actually, it upsets him. Currently in College, finishing what he started 7 years ago, better late than never he supposes, but not really he’d kind of like to quit. He feels old in the classrooms.