My brain is fried. The mere act of typing these words right now is proving to be enormously trying on my whole being, and because I still have 6 more pages to write of an essay about sex in 18th century French literature, I feel it best that I keep this post short and to the point.
Here is a poem, well, maybe it’s more like a train of consciousness, about food and finals.
What do you do
With 15 meals left
And 1 point
Ari Rudess
