Other than that how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?

Green thumb my ass! The whole office is slumbering out of their swivel chairs in laughter at my expense. For the last year, I've taken a meticulous interest in watering the potted plants that flank the entrance to the cullom-Davis library. Diligently, for the past two years, I water the plants once in the morning and once very late at night. You don't understand. I love these plants! These plants are so green they could pass for minted currency. I've even gone out of my way to use words like "verdant" and "coniferous green" to describe these plants to craggily old alums with cardboard foreheads and deep pockets. The only problem being (as I just, to my chagrin, discerned in between co-workers cackels) is that the plants are plastic!!! They've been plastic for the whole time I've been watering them and (very Homer Simpson like "D'oh!" here) the carpet beneath the plants also incurred quite a bit of water damage thanks to me being so adamant. Oh well, nothing like slipping on the post-modern banana peel every once in a while.

Of course, me being the sullied romantic sap that I am can't help but corrleate the whole plastic plant incidence into a contorted metaphor about contemporary relationships. How, initially, sometimes, when you meet a person and fall in love and start doing cartwheels on the quad and take an acute interest in every facet of that person's life and the next thing you know, those succulent lips that once compelled you to write sonnets and quit smoking and take up yoga turn out to be...well... plastic.

I'm such a Hick. Been listening to Neil Young and John Michael Montgomery all morning while "gay cleaning" my apartment. The reason I say "Gay clean" is because my last roommate and best friend was very Armani dapper, globally cultured and almost Gatsby-esque impeccable in his perspective on life, i.e. healthy hedonism. We had a sweet apartment in this old mansion now infested with the ubiqutous vraimin known as the yuppie. My old roomy (His name is also David) is about fifteen years older than me and I love him very much but we found out after living together for two weeks that certain strata's of orientations have different calibers when discerning whether or not something is clean. While I often opt for the live in ESPN, open-pizza box motif and had no problem filching the occasional role of toilet paper from my present place of employment, he preferred the apartment look like Covington Gardens at all time and would often, spontaneously, bark at me from the bathroom, asking in his dulcet voice whether or not he was wiping his ass with sandpaper.

Such is the life....Such is life...