It's spring, time

for slaughter. March in like a lion out like a lamb. I'm on the lam. In Stiles, April's the season of resurrection, rebirth, rain, room draw and assassins. The last two both can get violent. The game is on. Day 2. Notes from an undisclosed location. Paranoia and stalking started yesterday at noon. Staked out the bathroom this morning. Read Kant on the can until my target came, brushed her teeth, and then turned back towards no man's land, the hall way. Hand trembling with the thrill of the silly water gun kill, I shot. Glee, got her. I happen to be a little competitive. Walking around campus, little pink gun cradled in pocket, I'm happy for the excuse to draw pistols with anyone. I shoot on sight more for the five-year-old, childlike delight than the half hour of immunity.

be hives

Always thought I internalized stress, stomached my conscience and got indigestion from doubts. But between the blog and being covered in hives, seem to be externalizing anguish lately. My skin is a flag waving what refuses to stay beneath the surface. Face free but fickle, freckled, my hands, arms, legs and back bear bumps small and angry. Boo.

But brighter, happier news: we got first pick in the housing lottery. First in the room draw for juniors, Katie, Erin and I get almost any singles we want. Space, location, light, view, distance from the dumpster, all our choice. Feeling over lucky. Happen to know the guys who got first pick. One is on Stiles College Council, the other is well-liked by dog-pee dean. They knew before the "lottery" they'd have first pick of the boys' lots. Don't know what we've done to deserve this. We don't like the dean and she doesn't particularly like us, we're not boys. Guess I'll have to stop calling her dog-pee dean.