Mid-day Mourning

When the time came to register for classes last, February was it? (oh, sweet, naive Early Wintertime, when we did not know what we were getting into), some sort of perverse devil of sleep deprivation caused me to think "Oh, 8 AM class. I'll get it over with. That sounds like a good idea."

Oh boy, was I wrong.

Because now it's 1:30 in the afternoon, and I've been done with my school day for an hour, and many people on this campus are just waking up and crawling out of their warm, collegiate beds of happiness. So what do we do, we denizens of the morning class, we caffeine freaks on the common, we best minds of our generation destroyed by madness and Writing the Essay? Do we sit and wax rhapsodic about the lack of printers on NYU campus? Do we marvel at poor Mao's writing up? (Although I must say, at this point he's 87% ahead in the polls for Baby Daddy, so by online standards at least, we shouldn't be that suprised)

And who is this Provoked Dimsum anyway? She who hails from far off lands where they only label their bath products in Chinese Characters and pictures of kittens, she who sleeps little at night and much in morning, she who dissapears for long periods of time... Is she some sort of New York Moon Goddess? Is she the Painted Dragon herself? Is she even living less than 10 feet away from me?

Only the shadow knows.

Adios, mis amigos Jesus y Maria
You won't have no name when you ride the big airplane
And all they will call you is Napalm and Silly Putty