I can no longer date teenagers. I know this for a fact. And yet… No. I can’t date teenagers because they are babies and I don’t have time to whisper sweet nothings to anyone who still uses a fake-ID that says he can operate heavy machinery in the state of Indiana. I will not succumb.
On my fifth day of college, I found myself, wild-haired and barefoot, roaming the halls of the freshman dorms, with a bruise in the shape of the complete works of Plato on my back, and someone else’s condom wrapper stuck to my forehead, a modern-day mark of a bewildered and guiltless Cain.
Every Christmas, my mother hosts many, many, many friends and family members at our apartment for a festive meal. How charming! How cheery! How spry the great uncles and aunts seem! Who can say no to so many Amazon gift cards? You can buy anything there! You know, I’d really like to invite you all! Yes, I’m talking to you!
When my mother throws cocktail parties for the partners of her law firm at our apartment, I inevitably end up wedged against the baked Brie, answering questions about my Future.
Halloween is scary. I have always been afraid of the dark and of the show Are You Afraid of the Dark? and of movies where things pop out. I still have to leap into bed because of Mischa Barton sticking out her hand and grabbing that kid's ankle in The Sixth Sense. Who's afraid of Mischa Barton? Yeah, I am.
I am very secretly telling you about something secret that happened in one of Yale’s most secret of societies. Shhhh. But that’s not entirely accurate.
What I’m really telling you about is the swine flu, H1N1, or among its closest friends, its most intimate confidantes, simply The Swine.
