Epitaph on an army of mercenaries
The most significant new idea the American left has produced in at least a year emerged during winter break.
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Water, water everywhere
Before I commence with this week’s share of random thoughts, I want to rescind the statement I made last week regarding the registrar monster. There is no monster in the registrar’s office; in fact, in marked contrast to the vast majority of campus, there aren’t even any menacing squirrels in there. There are some really nice people, though, who personally demonstrated not only their lack of scariness, but also provided me with cookies. Thank you!
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Note taking for academic success
We’ve reached the hardest point in the semester. It’s the middle of February, which, despite what your calendars might tell you, is by far the longest month of the year. Spring is nothing but a foggy dream, Spring Break is nothing but a dream within a dream, and your immune system is fighting a raging homeland war against viruses, lack of sleep, and a surprise right flank by stress.
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Futuristic love and war
Most people have difficulty imagining the air as anything more than empty space, no matter what they might say about “atoms,” “quarks,” or “natural life forces that make [them] feel kind of sexy—in a spiritual way.” But there are prophets, sharply attuned to the many invisible layers of reality, that feel the forceful presence of collective spirit in the air as unequivocally as the heat of a flame, the friction of sand paper, or the cold, dark ambiance of your black soul. (“Black soul,” of course, referring only to malevolence and corruption, not to Southern Baptism, jazz, or anything at all associated with melanin or Africa.) As a prophet myself, I am particularly suited to interpret these atmospheric impressions, communicated through insensible air-borne currents.
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