You crazy for this one, Henry

I'm going to hell.

One of my best friends is coming to visit me over spring break. I can only convey my excitement over this prospect by quoting the entirety of the message that he sent with his flight itinerary.

"Here it is. Lets smoke pcp."

Holy moly.

I did $9 worth of laundry today. Three loads in, like, industrial strength washing machines. I am the filthiest boy in town. I would bemoan the fact that I seem to be the only person who ever cleans out the lint catchers in the dryers if it weren't for the fact that I only clean out the lint catchers because there is always noticeably more lint after I am done with the dryers than was in them before I began, and, despite what you would think to be the relative anonymity that comes with such an ignominy, this makes me feel ashamed. I don't want to be judged, even if the judger hasn't got a face to put with the name -- which will inevitably be something like "lint boy" or "Linty McLinterson." I would call such a person "Master Lintinand Lintington, Esquire, of Lintingham Village, Lintshire, just outside Linton, Englint." I have never considered myself an especially linty person, especially because I only very rarely have to dig it out of my bellybutton with a ballpoint pen cap after vainly fishing for a while with my stubby little fingers. But I may after all have to reconsider. I don't know exactly where lint comes from. Nor do I know why people get the hiccups, which I do not have, but in which I am nevertheless mildly interested. The mysteries are killing me.

(I actually have fabulous fingers.)