First of all, big yays for Liz Dunn's new line of hot girl panties, Snacks! Go! Buy! Now! And I'm not just saying so because word has it they were inspired by a catch phrase born of one of my very own misheardisms. I was listening in on two glossy-lipped urban teens, as is my way, and I thought I heard one admire the other's "snack ass" and I got so excited about the adject awesomeness of the term that for months I ran around describing every fine ass in my vicinity (and there are many) as totally "snack," as in "my, my, that is ONE. SNACK. ASS." But then someone informed me that teen asses are "snap," not "snack." Not nearly as good, I think! Anywhichway, thanks to the industrious efforts of everyone's favorite Liz, now your ass can be as snack as it wants, teenspeak be hell-fired.

[Let's wait a few moments while your racing pulse returns to normal.]

Okay.

So.

I just got back from the grocery store, and boy are my arms tired, strained as they are by a three-block waddle home carrying five bags stuffed with paper towels, toilet papers (how exciting the day was when I realized how much easier it was to carry rolls once they'd been set free of their regimented tower), dish washing liquid, laundry detergent, toothpaste, five pounds of sugar, 750 milliliters of olive oil, and also one banana and one apple. And some pastas. And one can of tomatoes.

Perhaps not the most intrinsically exciting haul ever to cross my threshold, but it gives me a unique brand of satisfaction due to the fact that I was, rather improbably, statistically speaking, completely out of all of those things -- the paper towels, the toilet paper, the dish washing liquid, the laundry detergent, yes, yes, yes -- at exactly the same moment. Something about the orderly coincidence of it, and maybe the startling efficiency it allowed of being able to take care of so many pending problems in one, fell trip, has left me with a delightful, "clean slate" sort of feeling. And what better way to get started on the first day of the rest of my life than with a fresh supply of scrubbing supplies? And olive oil?

Meanwhile, to those of you gnashing with worry over my performance on yesterday's midterm I say, man, that worry was and is not at all misplaced. The test was a udder disaster. (I'm trying to reverse-engineer a lead in that would make "udder disaster" an appropriately hilarious pun, maybe something about spilt milk? Bad boob job?) Is there a word for "not one flash card I fashioned was in the least bit relevant to the exam I just took"? No? Maybe in German.

Altogether there were ten, ten questions. Four novels and eight short stories, 25% of my grade, reduced to ten questions. The whole thing took me all of twenty minutes to complete, and I was the second-to-last (the PENULTIMATE) test-taker to leave the room. I had firm and juicy answers for only five of the questions; the other five were complete wing-and-prayer affairs, spastically thrown against the wall with hopes of stickage.

My favorite half-assed attempt was in response to a question like, of the many exotic locals that played host to [two oft-trysting characters], which was the exact location of their first kiss?

"In the snow!" I said. While technically true, that probably wasn't the answer he was looking for, which I'm guessing was something more along the lines of "war-torn Minsk, winter, 1918." (Is 1918 even a year when Minsk was torn by war? Yeah, I don't even know that. See?)

I told you before, this professor grades on a curve because his exams are so ridonkulously impossible, but that curve is going to have to be pretty steep to make a 50% in any way presentable, let alone worthy of a Fonzie-brand celebration.

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)

(PS: My diary has officially moved over to my official evany.com website. Let's meet up over there!)