I am inordinately happy that my calculator can graph cool-looking rotatable shingleshapes and balding-man-scalp designs. In fact, I spent a great deal of my afternoon (and battery, I presume) being amused by how my senseless twiddles can make a little snake weave between the hairs of the bald man and twirl around tulipshapes and batwingshapes.

Tomorrow, I shall quasi-sacrifice my integrity as a music history person to fulfill poetic necessities.


Henry Clay is like the Red Sox, the Cubs, and Catiline, all crammed together into a blender with a bit of soymilk. My pity for him grows with my stack of APUSH notes.

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