The following handwritten letter was recently discovered among the fall leaves on the marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

I think I’m going to go this Halloween as either a bitchy fashionista slumming in a pair of saggy ass sweats and stretched out granny panties and I'll tie the whole ensem together with a White Russian-stained bathrobe. Or maybe I’ll glue my mouth shut and go as an armless prostitute locked in a crude medieval armor chastity belt I liberated from an Amsterdam sex museum last month. Now of course there’s the sublime irony that no one will get my costume, but it’d be a huge personal accomplishment to drink with my feet all night. I’d still have keep both my real arms attached to my body though (my doctor says amputation is rather foolish for a Halloween costume), so I would try to disguise my arms to appear like I don’t actually have any arms. Ya know, I heard Napoleon kept his armies in his sleevies. Hmm, maybe I could do that. Wow, isn't it like so weird that I simultaneously think of random stuff at completely different times?

Wrapping my feet in your medicated acne facial towels helps my swamp-foot problem,

Kristin

Song of the Day:

Pudding Snack Chaos, “Bill Cosby Gangsta Rap”