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2005-02-02 Apparently, my dyslogia is now an airborne illness. Witness these two conversations with the Professor: First Conversation: Professor (hitching a masculine purse over his shoulder): I'm leaving for class. Me: I'll see you tonight. Oh! Try and identify the student who wrote, "We should be grateful to our forefathers who gave their lives for our country, and possibly in the future," in his paper. I want you to bring him home so I can sleep with him. Professor: I totally will. Me: Okay! Give me a kiss. The Professor obliges. I subsequently choke upon the Unsliced Grape of Dangerous Zestiness that rolls out of his mouth into mine. Me: Jesus, you taste like garlic. Professor (nods apologetically): Yes, I just had some chocolate milk. Second Conversation (Which Might Lead You to Believe We Are Two Minutes Away From DRESSING OUR CAT IN A LIBERTY BODICE AND BUTTONED BOOTS, But We Aren't, Okay): Professor: My God, look at the cat! Look at the elegant pose she has struck! The cat sits on his lap, hiding her face in the languid curve of her arm. Me (a little drunk): That's so...Pre-Raphaelite. Professor (entirely sober, and with boundless delight): I know! It's the most Pre-Raphaelite thing I've ever seen a cat DO!
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