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If any of you are just dying to meet some interesting and available methods of applied mathematics, but you just don’t feel comfortable introducing yourself, I suggest using Sean Mauch as a socially acceptable matchmaker.

This text has a bouquet that is light and fruity, with some earthy undertones. It is ideal with dinner or as an apertif. Bon apetit!

Only somewhat more reputable than the average creep in an online singles forum, but far cheaper than most parts of a college education. What better way to spend a Monday evening?

I had a bit of a breakdown last night. I keep telling myself that it’s okay to have a dysfunctional term, that it’s okay to feel sad, or apathetic, or anxious, that these feelings don’t have to come from some obvious external event to be valid, and that having or acting on such feelings doesn’t make me a bad person or a bad student - and I realized I don’t actually believe a word of it. Not where it counts.

You see, if I were a good student, the kind who was always destined to become a great scientist, my love of learning would overwhelm these feelings. If I were a good person, my commitment to my fellow man would allow me to feel these things without acting on them, except in carefully constrained circumstances of course. Then I would explode.

Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe I am a good person, and I just had to explode. Of course, a really good person would have waited until summer to explode, instead of doing it when she would be abdicating academic responsibilities and needlessly concerning other people who just want to get on with their job instead of wondering why this silly girl is fucking up for no apparent reason, but we can’t all be such saints.

But I still can’t shake the thought that if I really were a good person who exploded, I’d have been more spectacular about it, maybe gone anorexic or drawn things on my arm with razor blades instead of playing minesweeper for god knows how many hours on end. I could’ve at least stayed in bed and mumbled things to my pillow, I mean, geez.

Anyway. After I cried, Peter pulled me out on a 3 am walk through the neighboring too-much-money-build-big-house-on-curvy-street district, and I guess there was a suburb-fairy who didn’t take kindly to all the talk of Colonial vs. Tudor pretentiousness, because even though we weren’t ever lost per se there were many times when the mountains were in the wrong part of the sky.

Magical suburb-fairies are vengeful fucks.