Look Homeward, Angel

It's about damn time someone put a post on here. Yep, valentine's day. How about that? Not that any guy really gives a fuck about valentine's day; all guys give a fuck about is what will happen if they don't give a fuck (or give the well-crafted facade of fuckgiving). I have undertaken the herculean effort of reading the 528 pg. novel of Mr. Thomas Wolfe's fame, in the period of a week. Not a good call on my part, despite the overall quality of the work. Yes, the birthright novel of all Carolina English students (as any teacher will happily remind you) is quite a work to behold; being unacquainted with the work until my final semester, I'm slightly saddened that I never read it before. I'm also slightly saddened that I decided to pick this book to read in a week and give a damn presentation on. For those of you wondering why this stands in the way of a Man with 1 real class (weightlifting is quite a challenge for the senior, but honestly, you don't have to take it home with you), please recall the width and breadth of the events of late. There was the slight matter of the Duke game (god bless the scrub team; what coach puts in his B team and actually closes the gap on Duke??) a bit of heavy drinking to do on thursday and saturday, and a night of fine (free) film viewing in the wonderfully modern student union auditorium (who knew that seats could actually put the cheeks of your ass to sleep? Padded seats! to sleep! both cheeks!). In the end, the culprit behind the complications, as those who follow the trials of Phipps will know: procrastination. Yes, like the mysterious serial killer in CSI, the bastard rears his ugly head; keeping me enprisoned in bed till all hours of the day, up at night drinking red bull and diet coke while I should be slumbering on the rock-ass hard twin bed that Mill Creek delightfully provided for me, and generally preventing the academic and physical excellence that otherwise would be mine. Add in his friend alcohol, and you have a diagnosis: chronic senioritis.