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

Dear Lisa,

Hey did you know the Olympics are on? You probably haven’t heard of him, but there’s this hot swimmer dude named Michael Phelps that I have a total crush on, so I’ve been sending him tons of sexually inappropriate text messages. At breakfast, I’d gladly lick three fried egg cheese sandwiches with tomatoes, lettuce, onions and mayonnaise; three chocolate-chip pancakes, a five-egg omelet, three slices of French toast, a bowl of grits and two cups of coffee off his ripped abs. Then at lunch, I’d eat pound of enriched pasta and two large ham and cheese sandwiches off his taut, muscled ass, and don’t get me started about dinner, when I’d slurp off another pound of pasta (with carbonara sauce) and a large cheese pizza off his gold medal dorsal fin.

Whew, Phelps gets me wet, strokes it hard and stays in lane between my buoys, baby,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Kraak & Smaak, “Squeeze Me”