paco camino

The following handwritten letter was found crumpled on the autumn-baked marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

Is it possible that square block chunks of time might seem more like boxed clock-recorded cubes instead? I mean, couldn’t six weeks, four days, and 36 hours almost kind of seem sort of like five weeks, six days, and 53 hours on any third Sunday after a daylight savings time change following a holiday weekend on a leap year? Or maybe not. Oh yeah, I discovered that the foul odor emanating from the basement is from my flip-flops. It wasn’t a corpse after all. Don’t handle or lick them, as I understand they are totally fungally lethal. Good news though--my nuclear crotch-rot has been downgraded by the EPA and upheld by a district court judge, so you’re welcome to borrow any of my thongs again,

Kristin

Song of the Day:
Northern State, “Away Away”