Peanut-butter balls of doom.

This morning I awoke to a strange sound; for a drowsy, Benadryl-drugged moment I thought I'd lost my sensibilities completely. The sound was thunder. To confirm that I hadn't developed a grapefruit-sized brain abscess, the drumming of bathwater-warm rain began in earnest. I got up, turned off my alarm ten minutes before it went off, and began to wonder how in the hell a thunderstorm happens in January in the Midwest. It is, at nearly midnight, more than sixty degrees outside.

It's the end of days.

Grass is green. Insects have begun to emerge from their vile chrysalises. And you just know that somewhere on this campus, {social} sorority girls are getting together for emergency bikini-waxing sessions. "Like, Jeezum Crow! If I get caught all fuzzy at the big DEKE hot-dog and lite beer orgyfest, I'll just die!"

Brooke (esteemed co-founder of Phi Delta Gamma) brought two objects to the office today. One was her wedding album, which, despite the fact that I've seen many of the prototype pictures, nevertheless makes me well up like a kid who's been left by his "loving parents" at fat-camp. The second was a tin. Inside this tin were dozens of peanut-butter balls, lovingly dipped in chocolate.

Obviously, Brooke hates me.

I eat one, and as I feel the flesh of my mortal body slough off to reveal my innermost and most wanton desires' fulfillment, I know that, deep inside, I can not--nay! will not!--rest until I have eaten as many of these delights as possible.

The little voice within tells me to share, like a good boy. The part of me that knows I should never try crack because I'll like it too much told me to get off my ass and into the breakroom, lest one of those sacred orbs slip into some other person's gullet. I would be at the Front Desk, helping the needy and international, when from the breakroom I'd hear my name spoken, softly and gently, like a warm summer zephyr. It was too much. I thought the tea was bad news.

Ok, OK, bitches! I ate six of them! Sue me!

Oh, and I can already tell that my French class [if this is at all possible!] will be more awful than last semester. The professor... oh, it makes my nonexistent womb ache and the gorge rise in my throat. Nothing should be worth this much unless you get saluted for it.

Well, I am about to pass out. See you tomorrow, Bloomington.

Dom