I once flew in a private plane to Smith College for dinner. The next morning we cured our hangovers with Midol, because Smith girls know their chemistry.

The whole point of this post was that lede. The rest of this is, well, lost.

I mean, why did I ever go to Mount Holyoke for a weekend? The letter that invited me did my name like this:

Yeah. They do it. All of them. All of the time. Write on a ruler.

But waddya do? You get in da car and you go to fooking Holyoke.

Got the witchy thing yet?

Now?

Hey. It’s okay.

You write on a ruler. You get tired of that. Why some of us know how to act.

Yeah. Do it.