...i am NOT a 22 year old cocktail waitress...

Boiling down all my anger and frustration into one, completely incomprehensible run on sentence: Arguing the definition of "head games" has nothing to with syntax, philosophy is a barnyard animal (says the man in the blue suit), why are none of my socks in pairs, and don't HIDE behind fictional identities dismantled by geography and fact, you small-dicked (also, brained) miscreant.

In the face of a crazed bioethics exam, I am back to my schedule of two high protein, high-energy, low carb meals a day to a) keep me up, b) prevent sluggishness, and c) prevent the high-stress overeating to which university students have a tendency. Caffeine is present to an inordinately high degree in my blood this afternoon, making me jitterish, irritable but at the same time providing a charming, rosy hue to my face. It might make you think I'm safer to approach than I really am, but do not be fooled.

Do. Not. Mess. With. Me. Today.