There's not much I can say about the elections that won't sound tiresome and underinformed. Except, "we're fucked." But we don't need another round of elections to tell us that.

Today at work I called Neil & Selena because Neil had called in the middle of the night last night (4 a.m. my time, 2 a.m. his). I got ahold of Selena, at least, and I was reminded just how much I love her and Neil and Sarah. I told her to tell then hello. (Selena's pet name for Sarah is Boo Boo, which I think is just patently absurd. The last time we were all together we used a rotating list of alternate nicknames for Sarah, the only criteria being that they be similiarly onomatopoeic and percussively obnoxious. Examples: Gleep Glop, Fuckface, Flim Flam. Neil and I composed a list of more names, such as Bebop, Blowpop, Washcloth, Backpack, Shitfuck, Wall Paste, Pit Pat, Hot Glue, Moo-Shue, Piss Pants, Dim Sung, Tubehole, Ringworm, Drywall, Shazbot, Phone Book, Phen-Fen, Dunbar, Dingbat, Porkpie, Ripcord, Hook Shot, Wingspan, Shin Guard, Butt Plug, Boltpin, Robert Plant, Bedpan, Puke Duct, Finger Jar, Scarface, and Car Brain.)

Also at work, we were going over some essays relating to Les Miserables and a random memory flashed into my head: Early 1997, sophomore year of college, I went on a long walk with my friends Joe and Justin, except Justin was more commonly referred to as Pasty, a nickname from freshman year that stuck, so to speak. Anyway, Pasty was a voice major and had a beautiful tenor, which made it all the more hilarious when he would take songs and sing alternate lyrics to them. So there we were, trudging across the College Street bridge in late winter, and he burst into song: "Cosette, you are my only child / Cosette, under 'C' you will be filed... "

I guess you had to be there. Fine.

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