Yeah, you know you missed us.
“Don’t waste your time on me…”
doobeedobedoo . . .
It's time for . . . drum roll, please . . . non-lit majors do poetry!
Sometimes, when I wake up
I'm depressed
because I'm here--
That's right, Purcellville.
Okay, on a more serious note, I feel compelled to release to the PHC blogring my theory of, well, PHC. You see, I was struck, both this semester and last, of the peculiar nature of the student body. There seemed to be certain traits that, frankly, I found disturbing. Take Bethany here. She sees butterflies. Really. I mean, they're green butterflies with pink polka-dots . . . or so she says.* I wouldn't know. Anywho, we have countless OCD students and professors which strangely enough MUST--for some reason--live far, far away from campus. Why is this?? And then it hit me. PHC is not school. No, we have all been LIED to . . . Seriously. Don't you think it strange the institutional nature of the lounges? Don't you think it strange that we "think" we're going out of our minds, but we would definitely NEVER say we were crazy? I mean, psh. As I speak--am I speaking?--the roommate of Bethany sings in a high-pitched voice as if she were far, far away. And I think she is. I think she is, and you see, we all are . . . I'll let you draw your own conclusions . . . 
Thought of the week (or for however long it takes us to post again, which at this rate will be next semester):
CELLOPHANE.
Sticks only to itself . . . Why?
ANSWER: Just to irritate you.
*Subject to slight exagerration.
And I know we'll feel stupid about this in the morning, so we apologize in advance.
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