Blogspot, who I will eventually stop addressing as a person, maybe.

I had lunch with a former model today, one of Alis' friends. After taking a hiatus from her studies, this girl had an epiphany during a photoshoot and returned to NYU with the intent of wrapping up her chemical engineering degree. We spent two hours talking about vaginas, Triceratops and Naomi Campbell. Three years in, I am still reminded daily that this school is bananas.

Blogspot, run by the Bohemian Citizens Benevolent Society.

I vomited last night right after getting my MCAT scores back. To be fair to me, this wasn't just a result of a defunct stress-handling system. I had already indulged in a number of drinks made by Blaire, a girl who, historically, kills her victims with potent booze innocently disguised to taste like pumpkin pie, creamsicles or candy.

That the scores were already posted on the AAMC (Aardvark and Armadillo Mutual Compact) website was a tidbit handed down to me by Ashish, a twisted knob on the internet grapevine. Three people had to walk me through the website registration process because I was so nervous that I refused to read the title of the fields before I filled them in. My date of birth almost became my social security number.

This morning Ashish and I talked about our scores at length, and at a certain point, sounded like gossip. Gossiping about standardized tests toke me back to the days when I would do the same in gym class with Leah Feder as we scrambled across the pickleball court in heated battle. It's a little (a lot) shameful that we'd be using scores as a gossip item and I imagined a world where overachievers ran the tabloids-- a world where the front page of The Mirror would speculate on how the Federletus would score on his Iowas. Just as The National Enquirer did with its coverage of the Heidi Klum-Seal marriage, parallel-universe tabloid would ask tough questions about race--like why Asians require much higher scores to get into medical school (thanks affirmative action). It'd be a pretty shitty world.

I did well enough that I don't plan on a retake, btw.

Blogspot, neglected kinder.

When I hear about the remnants of a tropical storm affecting my area, what I usually get is rain and hot air, the type that pampers your skin with the gentle caress of a soiled jockstrap. That was Saturday. Now it's just cold and rainy, thank the Lord.

I went to Boston this weekend to help my parents prime windows and french doors. Since (in addition to being behind on the times regarding how 20 year olds conduct themselves) my parents operate on barter, I acquired two pounds of beef and pork and an entire broiled eel for services rendered.


Now, I understand that being the house chef imparts great responsibility, but in this case I have failed. I have neither the ancient knowledge or prodigious skill required to make broiled eel palatable to white tongues, so I think I'll just eat it as a midnight snack, now, alone. Certain qualities about me--weight, choice of shampoo, relative gayness index*--may hop around like a bunny, but it's nice to know that the fire of my hunger will burn at a constant high--Byron Lu, America's most trusted name in overconsumption.

*Gay club at 3AM Thursday. Index up 0.2 points to 6.4%