May 18, 2005

Meet Isabella Carbonell, who appeared in the latest issue of the glossy magazine my undergraduate college sends me every month. Still dreaming of the 1980s when they had their needle deep in the sweet, sweet vein of my parents' bank account, the college wants to keep in touch. Perhaps I would like to give them more money? They must think so, because they track me down wherever I move. It's a bit creepy actually—the magazine is better at finding me than my actual friends from college.
      The magazine tells me about the cool things the college is doing these days, and the vibrant young people who are its students now. Thus Isabella.
      Oh, Isabella. I am intoxicated by purity of your skin. I want to do the back stroke in the infinite pools of your eyes. I want to swing as a young boy from your dangly ear rings. I want to worship with my tongue your underarm stubble. Then you open your mouth to speak, and this is what you say, according to the magazine:

Who else do you know who goes camping, knows how to salsa dance, and is passionate about photography? I don't know abut typical. If you mean a young person who is aware, bright, wants to change the world—yeah, I'm typical