Slut? No. Skank? Doubt It. Sorry.

Grease-rings and salivation, faithful and faceless world wide interweb. What a genuinely wonderful invention you are. It is an endlessly comforting fact to know that you are always there to come home to. You are an incredible listener, with nary a peep of sassback, you are such a constant, you always do what I want to do, never bothering me with details of direction or purpose, and you are truly a sight for sore eyes. Oh my lovely interwebbings, why do you have to be the technological embodyment of the perfect woman? Why not flesh and blood, I prithee? Verily, I lament.

Yuck.

Annnnnd, moving along. Well, it did happen that there was a poster sale at school today, which fell well short of my expectations, sadly. In this instance booyah was left unachieved. I give the poster sale a resounding C-. However, I did manage to pick up a couple of posters. The first: a listing of all of U2's albums up until All That You Can't Leave Behind, which I have greatly desired for a long time, and the second: this incredibly beautiful poster of my good friend Michael Jordan, arms spread, ball being palmed in his right hand, the word 'WINGS' written above, and a quote saying something like, "No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings." Awesome. Just awesome. It's incredible. Other than that it was basically a pretty lame poster-fest featuring Scarface and Bob Marley. Which, to recap, was lame.

My college is funny. It seems that for a good portion of the people there, it is simply a large fashion show. Either that or a slutfest. Which, I guess, tend to be pretty much synonymous. I shouldn't use the word 'slut'. Skankfest. Mmmm, I don't know if that minor alteration will appease my omni-present and omni-irritating conscience. Oh well. Deal with it.

Oi. My mind is sprinting. I want it to be jogging casually. Time for a nap.

Fare thee well.

The Twin Ambassadors of Pain.