I might be kinda concerned about my health. I can’t smell unscented perfume or taste unflavored ice cream. Obviously I’m losing my hearing. Plus how do you know if you have a flesh-eating virus? My appetite for skin has been totally insatiable lately. I mean, wait, my body is covered with extremely contagious, antibiotic-resistant open wounds likely caused by aggressive bacteria caught from a toilet seat I licked at Grand Central Station after a heroin junkie used it to deliver a nuclear-radiated stillborn fetus. Damn, I knew that was a bad idea. Hey--you know how I like to sleep in the nude, right? Well your Snuggie feels nice against my diseased epidermis—I was totally going to wash it before I gave it back to you, but I couldn’t find any quarters for the machine.
Ever notice math is all just numbers and shit?
Song of the Day:
“Get Out My Life, Woman,” The Mad Lads
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The following handwritten letter was found this weekend crumpled up on the unseasonably warm marble steps of McKinley Hall:
Posted by Feo Mateo at 11:24 PM