CNN is running comprehensive coverage on Ted Kennedy's death and final journey. The headline right now reads, "He touched little guys like me."

Oh dear.

It takes serious balls to make a World War II movie nowadays. It takes even bigger balls to make a WWII dark comedy. It takes even bigger, hairier balls to make a WWII dark comedy containing almost no real historical fact apart from "Germans were Bad" and "Jews were Cooked." It takes the largest, most pube-covered, gold-plated ox balls to make a WWII dark comedy where Nazis get scalped by the platoon-ful by a team of fictional Allied super troops and Hitler gets shot in the face with a full automatic machine gun Abraham Lincoln style in a theatre already filled to capacity with trapped German sympathizers. Who are all burning alive.

Quentin Tarantino's balls scare the shit out of me. Hell, they scare the shit out of the ox.

Inglourious Basterds is the best movie of this, and possibly all summers. It is the kind of movie that leaves you with the urge to drink, smoke, and watch it again, at three o'clock in the morning, right after seeing it once already. The kind of movie that produces an energy so thick it takes hours of giddy re-enactments to divest of its residue, only disappearing because it soaks into your skin and lubes the pathways of electricity throughout your body until all you can do is tremor in its glory. The kind of movie that doesn't ask, but takes, and the kind of movie that you would gladly let tie you down, whip, slap, and gag you, you want it to take so much. And then, surprisingly, all it does is give.

Take your grandma to see Inglourious Basterds. Tell her that Brad Pitt is in it, and he's killing those damn Nazis. Because everyone needs to see this movie. At the end of the tale, the moral is clear, and it is a good one--No matter how bad it would have been if the Nazis had won the war, it always could have been worse. These Basterds could have won.

Billy Mays' toxicology report revealed metabolites of cocaine in his body, a sure sign that the high-energy, charismatic TV personality was using the drug just days before his death.

And people are surprised.

You sick, shitty assholes.

Your own ineptitude has caused you yet another great disservice. At least 8 of you missed seeing Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince at midnight and trust me, even if Time-Turners existed, the Ministry would never approve you to possess one for fear that you would break the tiny, fragile object while jacking off to the past vision of yourself jacking off and then somehow bring about a global nuclear holocaust. Personally, I think they're giving you too much credit, as you probably wouldn't be able to figure out how to travel back in time even given an intense full-day course and a set of simple, bulleted instructions. But I'm not bitter.

Those of you who did see Harry Potter at midnight--I love you, but not as much as I loved that movie.

I've heard a number of oral reviews since seeing it, and the consensus doesn't seem to agree with my vehement love, though neither does it completely disagree. It's mostly neutral, which grates more than any intense dislike would. The "It was good, but it could have been better, but I still liked it, even though I didn't like all of it" response. Apathy. Love's opposite. Hate is too violent an emotion to be opposed to love, and is instead in many respects the same catalyst altogether, and I would much rather have the masses hate a Harry Potter movie that I love so we could at least hold a decent, impassioned debate about the topic.

However--Within the first half hour of HBP Draco had sulked, been keenly observant, and locked himself and Harry in a cramped train compartment, drawn the blinds, and been a terribly good shot with the Petrificus Totalus curse. Oh yes, there was hate, and hate in a train compartment is the same as love in a train compartment, though with more broken noses. Do you understand now? That much passion cannot be ignored, and deserves--needs--release. Boys will be boys.

Ahem. And then there was the bathroom scene. Sectumsempra. Harry and Draco, alone once again, and sweating hate across a bathroom floor. If only the curse had slashed his shirt off, not just the skin underneath it. Though I guess this is a kid's movie, or so the rumor says.

Plus, everyone was wasted on some potion or 3-proof kid's drink at some point in the movie, and the acting is definitely still improving. Slughorn was divine, Snape perfect, Dumbledore passable (most notably at the end, when he was DEAD), and Bellatrix--Oh, Bella. Luna, as always, is the best casting choice this franchise has made, and Ron continues to steal the show from those other two losers for me. Harry Potter Drunk and Pissy is my second favorite version of him, right after Harry Potter Angry and Having Sex With Draco Malfoy.

Ginny is an ugly slut. But she shows some promise.

I understand why they didn't include the battle at Hogwarts, and expected it to be missing when Harry drank the entire bottle of Felix Felicis without any consideration to his friend's future safety. Burning The Burrow sets up Shell Cottage as the entire Weasley clan's house, instead of just Bill and Fleur's, who will combined now have more than 1 1/2 faces. Seeing Fenrir in action was one of the largest draws of this movie, so the next two had better include gratuitous amounts of mass half-transformed werewolf manslaughter. I think we can all agree on that front.

When you finally see it, you lazy scumbags, count how many times someone says, "I'm curious" in this movie. It's a lot. Though it still doesn't outnumber the PG-obvious sex jokes. Damn Hollywood, are we really that predictable?

A friend thinks that Dumbledore and Grindelwald will be played off as close friends in the next movies, with no hints at their intense case of The Gay. I disagree--I believe that someone will sneak something in there, and it will be satisfactory. If Ron can ask Harry "Did you guys do it?" after Harry was raped by Ginny in the Room of Requirement, then they can have a lingering hand touch between Dumbly and Grindy.

Asher Roth wants to be a respected and influential mainstream rapper. His first single is about college. Strike one.

This evening, NPR played an interview with Asher wherein the up-and-coming artist discussed his plans to generate relevant social conversation among his assumedly 18-34 year-old fan base, and to help his listeners ask "Why?" and "Why not?" more often in their daily lives. Overall, he was extremely eloquent and had a well-developed perspective of how his career in music could impact more than night clubs and teenage bedrooms; it seems that Asher views the microphone as more than a personal spit catcher, but as progression's amplifier. Or at least as a paddle to smack some sense of responsibility into his otherwise oblivious fans.

Strike two.

But he's not out yet. He's been throwing curve balls at himself, it seems, but he knows it. So while he may be slightly disillusioned, he's not ignorant, and that's a great start. His first strike stems from a misplaced label more than anything. His "rap" about college sounds more like a popped-up Gym Class Heroes remix that I can't believe any respectable hip hop station would play. However, I have heard "I Love College" on the Edge, (Sorry, FM 1039 now. Whatever.), rubbing alternative shoulders with Nine Inch Nails and No Doubt. Other bands who cater to kids who go to college. And there it is--even Asher raps about the horrors of poverty, but as a kid who grew up in a suburb of Philadelphia and attended a university, his audience is automatically limited. He promotes activism and directs the social conscience to a group that otherwise disassociates with rap or hip hop. Sure, we can listen to Tupac and Biggie, but can we relate? Not as deeply as their main fan base who grew up and lived through the plot points in their rhymes, no. Asher rapping about college is just as ostracizing to the group he is attempting to reach. He's closer to a Sage Francis than a 50 Cent. This doesn't mean his first single is bad, by any means; for what it is, it's pretty catchy and clever. It's just not rap.

Asher's second folly isn't his fault at all, and is in fact one of the reasons I seem to be taking to his style so much. If he wants to get radio time and iTunes downloads, then bitches and hoes are the way to go. If he wants to earn political and social respect but doesn't want to ever leave the bleachers of indie artistdom, then he's doing just fine. "I Love College" caught on because it's inane, even Asher realizes that. He also realizes that it's a platform for a larger conversation, which his other songs supposedly cover. But even the Flobots had that one song during that one time, and now...? If he's good, hopefully he'll generate more singles and yes, more conversation, but probably not in the classic "rap" fan base. If any of his wishes for an end to poverty and an uprising of global diplomacy are met, then maybe that base will change, and he will be considered "rap." But for now, I'd call him "alternative hip pop."

Also, he's white.

Strike three.

At first, it was easy to ignore the signs. Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson--tragic, but Death Comes In Threes and baseless American adages have never steered us wrong before, so all was well. Move on, find another classic icon to adore and cry on your own time, old timers.

And then Billy Mays died and all of the pieces clicked together, and now there is no denying the true underlying reason for this sudden onslaught of B-List death. I hate to bring it up again, but I feel it would be doing a great disservice to the rational beings of this world if I didn't say it, here and now.

The Zombie Apocalypse is upon us.

For real this time. Highly publicized mass death is one of the first signs, a way to taunt us when it comes, a way to say, "We warned you, but you were all too stupid to see it. Now let me devour those fat, juicy brains since you're obviously not using them anyway." And they will. Devour us whole, in parts, and alive. But the most disturbing part of the Apocalypse won't be the blood-soaked strips of flesh and shredded muscle dangling from the undeads' drooling lips, it will be our own submission to their hungry wills. We will let them eat us; we will want them to. A few of us will even pay them to eat us, our friends, our lovers, our children, and our ailing grandmothers. We will throw our money at their decomposing feet and scream, "I need you to eat me, zombie! Eat me! Eat me!" And they will.

That's Billy Mays' role in this coming nightmare. We've all seen the movies and played the games and read the survival guide, and in the end, the zombies' story ends the same. Zombies lose. Humans win. Even if just a few of us remain living, we can hide, fend for ourselves with a wider variety of sustenance than our decaying counterparts, and wait it out until the zombies starve and die a second, permanent death. To prevent this from happening, the zombies will need a pitch man on their side. A zombie to promote their cause, sell their intentions, and make the entire process as smooth as possible. Obviously, the rest of the roles have already been fulfilled. Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon are to use beauty and humor as bait to lure us into a false sense of security. Michael Jackson is in charge of choreography and, if he has his way, driving the ice cream truck. All they needed was a PR Rep, and they stole our best. If only they had taken the Sham-Wow guy instead, we might have stood a chance.

So this is the end. I predict a three-a.m. two-hour infomercial by the end of the month, made prime time by summer's close. Zombies: The New Starving African Homosexual Oppressed Feminist Slave Child. To donate money or a fresh limb, contact 1-800-EAT-THIS today! They will have plans to keep us breeding and happy while they feast on our kin, but otherwise we will barely even notice their presence over the Turtle Wax and laundry detergent filling our minds.

If you wish to prevent your family from being eaten or your thoughts from being overrun by a Billy Mays zombie hypnotist, order your Billy Mays Zombie Hypnotist Repellent Body Spray RIGHT NOW! Contact Jessica Conditt at jesscon@zombiefreeisthewaytobe.com for more vital information.

Death is always a touchy subject. I would say that we are all affected by it differently, but we're really not. Sure, our outward representations differ greatly from one another, but on the inside, the emotional gut-wrenching catalyst that spurs our responses remains the same. A reminder of our own mortality. We are all going to die. Even you, Mrs. Lovett, even I. If a super-human superstar who ritually bathes in cow's blood to stay young like Michael Jackson can die, then there really is no hope for the rest of us. But I guess this proves that he was human after all, which is a relief because I'd always hoped aliens weren't that neurotic.

Our survival instinct is one of the greatest forces driving our personalities, actions, and decisions. The overwhelming need to keep existing, despite the knowledge that we will not live forever. I assume this is why we have spirituality hardwired into our physiological minds; we are an extraordinary race, with the capability not only to be self-aware (even monkeys can see themselves in a mirror), but to be self-evaluative. The ability to think critically about ourselves and our places in this life, the meaning of what we're doing, and even if there is one. Without the idea of immortality and a continuing existence beyond the physical plane, I believe that many of our survival instincts would be overrun by pointlessness, listlessness, and eventually suicide. We can ask Why?. If the answer to that question is Natural evolution and randomized genetic synthesis, then many people may fail to see the beauty in our time, given its constraints. In religion there lies a more acceptable answer, usually one of eternal life, which makes this physical existence entirely meaningful. I am here because I am meant to be here. Fate, destiny, and love. I don't know which of these views is correct, I don't know if they are both correct, I don't know The Truth of it all, but I am thinking about it, and that in itself is an astonishing privilege. I do view our time alive as short, and therefore more beautiful by its very nature. Every day could be the end, so make it count. Live a life worth dying for, even if that means a life deserving of death.

If it can exist, communication is the key to immortality. Not only being famous and talked about today, for most of today's stars will die and be forgotten by the end of the next generation. To truly remain a part of human life, interaction, and thought, forever, is to create ideas that are too beautiful to ignore, forever. Immortality through the web of minds connecting over your insights. Something that will impact and supplement the thinking process of every human, because in the end there is no one person, there is no you, no me, only us. And when the Earth is consumed by the sun and our race has relocated across the universe, we will still discuss and enjoy and loathe those eternal thoughts. And when the universe implodes upon itself and we are left with that which we can not know, the impossible "before" to qualify "God" or "The Big Bang," we can know that while we were here, we did something. If that something is only to masturbate our own survival instincts for as long as possible until the bitter end of everything, then bring on the foreplay. We're here, we might as well enjoy ourselves.

So what are we doing?

Pulsing with life, for one. Changing, always. Existing, debatable.

But that wasn't the question. What are we doing?

Because conversing isn't a valid action anymore. Or if it is, its definition has been distorted to mean, buying a pair of vintage high-top shoes from Target, Journeys, or the obscure clothing and accessories store that no one knows about except for me and two other extremely cool people.

It's a miracle they stay in business.

That's not entirely fair, though. We converse. And that's a complete sentence--subject, verb, period--so conversing must be something. A temporary fill in the void. More entertaining than sitting alone and less physically intensive than texting, which is still not conversing. These statements are all relative, dependent on definition, so let us first establish that, here. The value of and in human communication and true conversation is more than your life is worth, mainly because you can not converse alone and its sum is therefore greater than your parts, and partly because you're a sorry piece of shit. Generally speaking, that is. I read this too and I include myself in that assumption, so unfurrow your brows and halt the martyr routine now, pussy. You're not special.

Conversing: That thing people do when they have no other choice or veritable distraction close at hand; most commonly begun with, "So. What are we doing?"

Doing. As if we could choose to be not doing something. As if nothing were really a valid answer and not just what you told your mom after getting home from middle school every afternoon.

Perhaps I'm in a strange mood. Normally I enjoy doing things. Even things that more and more people don't seems to consider things, explaining why they constantly (including prematurely) ejaculate the question, "What are we doing?"

I know what I'm doing. Self-awareness is a human trait that I feel too many people neglect and I make an effort to retain mine more securely as a result. If you also know what you're doing, then we know what we're doing, and there's your answer, Question Master. Done, move on, perhaps work on improving that sad definition up there. And again, we're doing something. Relax. Once more, something we do.

Entertain yourself, assholes. Chill the fuck out and save your money and your young abdomens from their emergent beer bellies. Be patient and those will form on their own in time. No rush. The question itself is maddening and insulting, asked consistently by someone on the move from one inconsequential situation to the next, to the next, to the next, to the next, to finally culminate in an inconsequential death of an inconsequential person who lived an inconsequential life. Consequently, you don't matter.

Don't ask it, just do. We all know the question, so be the response before it needs to be verbalized. Friendly advice. So, one more time, class. What are we doing?

Your mom from behind.

Watching documentaries about a psychotic dead journalist turns me on.

It's not weird. I've seen weird--I've done weird--and that is definitely not weird. It is noteworthy though, mainly because it just happened. Again.

Obsession is a loaded word, and it is a good one. The loaded ones usually are, unlike the guns, which he adored. I may be obsessed to the point of compulsion of pen and disorder of mind, and I may be okay with that. I can recognize my own bias and my own attraction, and at their current levels of activity, they are in no way interfering with my own voice or ideas. Code Green, put the cover back on The Button. Not today. I still despise guns. I also want to fire one. I've also wanted to try the vast array of drugs which he imbibed, though those who know me well will tell you that I still haven't. I have my standards. Book first, drugs second. Or never. But at least I have my book. I believe I will always have my book and myself. (That is narcissistic. Oh my. But this is about me, isn't it? I cannot replace these personal pronouns with any other sort besides "I" and "mine" and "my" and "me" and have it be relevant in any way at all. I can only feel for myself. I can only feel myself. I feel myself. Every night, better than anyone else ever has. It's personal.) He's already dead.

Love is closely related to OCD in the neural sense, according to Them. That tightness in your chest, that churning of acid burning butterflies in your stomach, that racing heart and that quickened breath. I feel that while watching him from behind a bubbled screen; I feel that while hearing another man read his words; I feel that while reading his writing again, every time. Our mothers would call this feeling love. I call it respect. A good word and the right word. A lightning bug and the lightning. It doesn't matter what it really is, as long as the label makes sense. We believe in love and we have seen Cinderella; therefore it must be love. The prince loved and respected her; but in the end he just wanted to take her home with him, and how dirty is that? Something that feels so pure can't be that tainted; therefore it must not be either. The path to the Dark Side stands: Respect leads to obsession; Obsession leads to Love; Love leads to Suffering.

But I don't believe that at all. Love, if it exists in the ideal that I believe it has to, does not lead to suffering. That's far too emo. My hair isn't long enough for such a statement, and besides, I just got highlights. The question remains then, as it has for centuries, Does Love Exist? Out of respect for my father and step-mother, I say yes. Out of personal experience and educated projections, I say not so much. But that is subject to change. My mind and body are open to suggestions.

But this is all a diversion tactic. Defense mechanism. I've already referenced the letter I wrote her at least three times, because I can't get it out of my head. It's all true and it's validity is not diminished because she's not actually going. She's not going.

I have to go.

If you haven't seen:





You'd better have seen this one already, and the two sequels:

NEW HARRY POTTER TRAILER BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

And it comes out two days earlier, on July 15.






BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

NEW HARRY POTTER CHARACTER POSTERS. I <3 them.

Harry [It'd be better if he were shirtless. Or naked and with a horse behind him.]

Dumbledore [Moses.]

Hermione [I really like this one.]

Ron [Quidditch!Ron stares at you like you're a mofo. Because you probably are.]

Draco [Holy shit, when did they recast Draco as the dude who played Ozymandias in Watchmen? At least that means Draco can finally come out as super-gay.]

Snape [He looks bored.]

So Little Ashes looks good.



It really looks good.

Like, I'd see it even if it didn't have all the hot Cedric Diggory Robert Pattinson and Co. boy-on-boy action.

Shocking, I know.

Let's all go see it together.

Oh. Em. Gee.

New photos of ( Draco, teenage Tom Riddle, and other people that I'm not going to put under this cut because they're little ginger tramps )

I have to say, I kind of love the picture of Draco. It's not exactly steamysexyhot, but it totally is in a hardcore angsty way. Yeah, definitely love it. I mean, look at that eyebrow. It's looking back at you.

HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE MOVIE POSTERS RELEASED.

( This one is my favorite )

From TLC, Harry and Dumbledore.

And, if you haven't heard it yet, Christian Bale freaking out at the director of photography on the set of Terminator 4 for no good reason. And the techno remix.

So they say (it's better the second time; they say you get to do the weird stuff; we do the weird stuff) that sex sells.

It appears that they're right.

I began the above blog post with, I asked the boyfriend if he had any ideas for my blog this week and he said, "Boobs," knowing that the first few lines of any post serve as a summary on the main blog site, where most people (in this case, video game nerds) browse through the latest articles. The post, which has absolutely nothing to do with boobs beyond the first few innocent lines, received an above average view count and an abnormally high text response in just the first few days on the site. After I pimped the post on Facebook and MySpace today, using a similar advertisement technique ("Boobs," click), the number of views exploded like a 29-year-old virgin straddling Emma Watson on the back of a trotting horse after just taking a triple dose of Viagra and heavy laxatives.

The normal number of views for posts doesn't reach the triple digits and comments are scarce, with one being the average, or even slightly above. This particular post received around 30 views and obtained 3 comments before I had pimped it outside of the site. After pimpage, it currently has 235 views and still the 3 comments.

I posted links to this thing this morning.

Now, what does this say? My friends are all complete and utter perverts whose minds are trained to act solely upon thoughts of animalistic instinct and pleasure? They all had a lot of down-time between classes today? The site glitched and accidentally counted 10 views for every single one (Doubtful)?

I wouldn't be surprised.

The rest of the bunch. [NOW WITH BOOBS!]

ALSO: Have you seen the new HARRY POTTER SOCIAL NETWORKING SITE on The Leaky Cauldron? OMGINORITE? All of you should JOIN US make a profile and network with the cool kids (there's a Harry/Draco group...). My name is DeathIsDelicious, I'm in Slytherin, and my Patronous is Ground Beef, and it's all so fucking awesome. If you're going to make a profile, let me know and I'll send you a special link that gives me house points for referring a friend. If you're laughing at the fact that I want to earn house points, suck my 12 3/4" wand.

You want to be a Jedi.

It’s no secret, so don’t bother hiding it. In fact, don’t even think about hiding it, because if you want to be a Jedi, then you obviously believe in Jedi, and you never know where those crafty mofos are lurking and they can read your thoughts because they’re fucking Jedi and they’ll out you faster than Neil Patrick Harris wearing a banana hammock while drinking Appletinis and sharing a real hammock with Richard Simmons and Sir Ian McKellen.

Point is, now you can be a Jedi. In an entirely artificial and cheesy bought-it-on-clearance-at-Toys-R-Us kind of way. I don’t actually know if Toys R Us is going to be selling this particular product, but I have some friends in the business (75th and Bell, Represent!) and I’ll keep you posted. But first I guess you’ll need to know what exactly it is.

Technically, it’s a helmet and a plastic tube. The trick lies in the headpiece—utilizing technology previously reserved for medical facilities and testing brain-wave functions, the Force Trainer, as Lucas Licensing has dubbed it, gives players the illusion of telekinesis. The helmet—from pictures I gather that it’s designed like Vader’s, therefore lending this product the title Force Trainer, instead of the more general Move the Tiny Ball Up and Down in the Plastic Tube with Your Mind—acts as an EEG machine, reading players’ brain wave fluctuations to interpret what they wish to do. In this case, move the ball up or down. It’s like magic. Or it’s like a technology that has been in use for years in medical treatment and research facilities.

Some people are calling this use of technology “innovative” and “exciting,” while others are calling it “a waste of good thought that could be put to better use searching for new treatments for cancer, schizophrenia, and a myriad of other debilitating physical and psychological disorders,” but I’m calling it the future. This upcoming telekinetic trend doesn’t stop at moving balls without having to touch them, which in hindsight doesn’t sound like it’d be as much fun as we first thought, but developers at Mattel are also working on a tabletop mind-controlled ball-moving game, and Emotiv Systems is producing games for a headset they released last year that can read a player’s emotions and cognitive thoughts and transfer those to character facial-expressions, movements, in-game environments, and music.

But the real star of the show is, of course, Star Wars. The title of this particular blog spawns from the conversation my friends and I had at lunch today while eating at Charley’s Steakery OMGSEWDELISHUS, where all one person had to say was “Jedi mind control toy” and we were lost. It degraded into purile jokes concerning balls and tubes, being Jedi only when wearing this helmet and looking at this tube, how interesting Jedi sex must be, and the relation of interesting sex to number of babies spawned, which explains why Leia had twins. We then circled back to the actual toy, and how we wouldn’t buy it for ourselves, but if a younger cousin got it for his or her birthday, we’d be all over that shit faster than our parents could say, “Get a job and buy your own, dickwad.”

And everything else you've been missing.

And the competition.

There's been frighteningly little buzz about the newest Harry Potter trailer on my flist, so to spice things up a bit, I give you this:



The good news: It looks GREAT. The apparition alone is perfect. And the cave and Bellatrix and Draco and YES.

The bad news: The trailer is playing before Twilight.

I give in--I'll see the sparkly vampire movie. But only because of the Harry Potter trailer and only because Robert Pattinson is oh so very hot.

It's beautiful, in the most terrifying way possible.

A landscape of American politics gone right; the grass is greener on the other side and ours is now a lush carpet of Emerald, Army, and Forest, fertile and strong under the forthcoming leadership of Barack Obama. Grass, however, grows best where the animals have shat on it, and brown where they have shat on it too much. Propositions 102, 8, and 2 aren't just brown specks on the American garden, they're fields of decay--moral, humanitarian, and equality slaughtered on the spot under piles of religious sanctimony and outdated conservatives' feces. But they're still in the garden.

The sun will continue shining, the rain will fall, the bigots will find greener patches to shit on, and these propositions will be revoked. Again, in many cases. And from those aged fecal leftovers our fields will grow greener than all others; they'll nurture flowers and trees, life to its fullest extent. They will be ours.

And once again, gay Harry Potter sex saves my life.

Seriously, I'm going to make a t-shirt with the phrase "Gay Harry Potter Sex Saved My Life" across the front in obnoxiously large, neon print. And then I'm going to make seven more, because that's at least how many times I've been in a situation like this.

I have to write an essay. No big deal, I know, but here's the rub--it's a comparison/contrast essay. For a 101 class. That I've already taken two times. And could have taught both of those times already. No, I didn't fail, but transfer credits sure are a bitch, especially when the university you get them from only offers electives all cleverly disguised as general education courses. Anyway--I have to write a comparison essay, and the only way that I will get through this without gnawing off every single one of my fingers and then sewing two back on so I can write a quick suicide note and pull that gracious trigger, is to write about gay sex. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy having beautiful, raunchy, gay sex. So I am.

I'll get an A on the paper, too, guaranteed.