Champion of the Semicolon

Hotmail's spam filters are treating me right, for once. Occasionally, something that I may want or need gets filtered to junk mail, but I periodically check it. I admit -- I check it for the hilarity as much as or more than the search and rescuing. Today's gems (subject lines only, I'm uber-virus/spyware paranoid*): "Pulsing Pole of Penile POW-AH!" "Check out these F.R.E.A.K.Y. D.I.C.K.S.!!!" and the ever-present "Georgia, you need a new mortgage." Of course, my favorite comes from the days at the Anchorage Daily News, subject to spam greater than most mortals can bear -- "Igor, got debt?" The sender? Someone named Grandville Istre. If that's not the name of a gated community or foreign race track (or both), I'll eat my hat. I don't think I'll be responding, as my penis is perfectly fine in its non-existence and porn isn't really my thing. Especially freak dicks. And as for Igor and Georgia, they gots the wrong number. Style points for the alliteration and spelling of POW-AH, however, are due. Speaking of spamola, this site is full of spam poetry.

Single-handedly, I stopped a really big rip in the knee of my well-lovededest jeans in its tracks. It was one of those holes that is positioned perfectly to rip a little more with every move I made. Now, it is frozen as a large, but stylish gap. How did I stop the destruction -- nay, the madness? Superglue, applied in a border around the rip inside and out. I'm a college-livin' genius. Maybe I should write a book of tips and such for po' students such as I a la Heloise. Maybe not. But I feel mighty accomplished.

The feeling of accomplishment (soaring further, as I've gotten all my reading done for the next two days in the wake of a history class cancellation) will hopefully overshadow the creeping doubts about college as a culture. When I see people I know walk by, I'll ask how they're doing, they'll ask the same and no one gets a response. The feigned interest bothers me. It's not across the board, but it makes me wonder. There's a sense of entitlement here, a feeling of "I'm better." Everything is steeped in this thought of degree = money. More money than one would make flipping burgers or cleaning hotel rooms. The selfishness transfers easily to social relations. I don't have a whole lot of friends here, and maybe that's a good thing. Shallowness is a cultural value. It's depressing. Hope comes from the people that listen as much as they talk, read over papers together, or undergo the torture of a German skit (heh -- I had the best part in that, bar none.) It's easy to get lost in loneliness and latch on to whoever is closest. That thought courtesy of Katie's latest piece -- which I enjoyed.

This is getting a bit consciousness-streamy, so I'll hold off for now. But posting once per day is the goal, so tune in next time. Today's post was brought to you by Superglue and well-ventilated rooms.