Blogspot, Daoist princess.

At Leigh and Al's Christmas party, I punched a wall and wounded my hand grieviously. The breach was a long, canyon-like gash along my left index finger, its smooth bed lined with dying tissue, but punctuated by cute scraps of dirty flapping skin. Joe tells me I looked at it, giggled, and continued to tie little red bows onto the string of beads I was wearing like a very-special pageantry sash.

Later that night, weakened from my rum and egg nog exertions, I fell upon the ground and prayed for a swift end. Unfortunately, Leigh saw it fit to prolong my life and literally dragged me by limp legs along a hallway coated in dust and rancid tomato sauce in an effort to return my carcass to my boyfriend.

He had left thirty minutes earlier to smoke, so Leigh followed his nose, hauling me up through a chemical gradient of aerial canniboids. On the seventh floor, Joe unceremonially dumped me on a bed, my ruined hand coming to rest on a mat of cashed stems.

Two days later, all three sets of articulations on my left index finger look like the raw beef I use to make curry. I joked that marijuana plants might soon spring from the wound, but was secretly more afraid that I might contract something like a multi-drug resistant Staph infection. It seemed like a good idea to pour April's Listerine on the wound. Now my entire hand feels like fire. I resist the grotesque pain because I am a man, but my deepest desire is just to be held.

Merry Christmas.

Blogspot, useful for a host of skin disorders.

Times I have had cold sores this semester: 3
Number of cold sore patches I have now: 3
Duration (in hours) of progression from prodrome to blisters: 3

It's a layered trifecta of pain.

Somebody please bring me a cake and some lysine pills so I can put them in a blender and drink the mixture for lunch.

Blogspot, 100% whole grain.

Tonight is both the season finale of America's Next Top Model and the season premeire of Project Runway. The continuity is almost too perfect.



With this, the serpent has bitten its tail. The alchemy wheel has been completed. The great circle of life begins anew.

Q: What is scrumptious?
A: Three hours of television.

Blogspot, in health and disease.

My mom called this afternoon to tell me that I got my first medical school solicitations, one MD/PhD ad from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and another med school one from Columbia*. More are likely forthcoming.

When I asked myself how I felt about it, I told myself that it was both scary and exciting. It has since occured to me that 'Scary and Exciting' would be the perfect title of a public service special about your first trip to the gynecologist. Having shared in this combination of emotions, I feel I understand what it means to, one fine day, begin to randomly bleed from the vagina.

*In addition:
Columbia emailed me a pamphlet regarding their program for a Masters in Nutrition.
Suhxie emailed me a deal involving roundtrip airfare and three nights in Jamaica for $450.

Blogspot, lightly scented allergen reducer.

Any party where I end the night spraying people with Febreze must be have been stupendous at a minimum. If one were to add, say, a liter of Jack Daniels, midnight snowfall and apple crisp baked by one's boyfriend, this party might be misconstrued as magical, an outstanding bookend to a long-ago weekend of unicorns.

Combining the numbers of a severely overcrowded apartment party with the density of a yacht club brunch--Thus did Nick Snow's birthday extravaganza come to pass, renewing Beverley Square Massive's legacy of infrequent, but acclaimed revelry.

Blogspot, cruel redeemer.

Starbucks on Astor Place is full of the Christmas spirit. Over the course of an hour, Jamie, Casey and myself gorged on free gingery cakes (that were delicious) and eggnog lattes (that tasted like cow piss). We decorated gift wrapping with provided crayons and told stories about Berlin youth on the rampage. It was fun--so much fun that I called my tutoring client to push back a session, pretending I was at a fundraiser. Sneaky!