March 2004 - cbis at mit dot edu
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A true story:

My broken husk of a body wearily made its way up the 3 flights of stairs
which would bring me to my comfortable little bed. It was 3 am on a sunday
night. I had to get up for class in 5 hours. Carrying 50 some odd pounds
of luggage, my portable hyper-technological incredibility complex of a CD
player blasting away some Boredoms into what have becomes withered and
weary ear drums. "Oh that's odd," I think to myself as I begin the long
and arduous voyage down the hall, "the floor is all covered up in
newspaper."

I clank and clunk down the goddamned hallway to the unbearably sweltering
hellhole that is my room. I stop before the door. "That's strange, I can
hear sounds inside," I think, in the sing-song cerebral tone which
torments me day in and day out.

The door swings wide. "Oh no." I draw 2 swords and begin murdering. Emma
lies on the floor, her mouth agape (as per usual) with a roll of tape in
one hand and a bananna in the other, writhing. Graham is in the corner,
liberally applying newspaper to every available surface.

Everything is covered. Everything. My collection of fine french
pornography. My unmentionables. My books. My clothes. All wrapped. Each
one of my cereal bars, carefully wrapped, placed in their box which is
wrapped, placed in the bookcase...which is wrapped. Layers upon layers of
newspaper. Newspaper everywhere.

I begin to weep. My shoulders hunch forward, the tears flowing thick and
wet down my face. I couple over in pain and fall to the ground. My friends
laugh and laugh. What a prank.

But the tears were a ruse.
Their spilled blood tells the rest of the tale.