The following handwritten letter was found this weekend crumpled up on the unseasonably warm marble steps of McKinley Hall:

Dear Lisa,

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?

Kristin

Song of the Day:

“Get Out My Life, Woman,” The Mad Lads