The hour badly spent

We just found a new way to stalk you on Facebook. And "you" know exactly who we mean, COUGHCOUGH*sexycommunistspy*COUGHCOUGHCOUGH. Apparently, if you go to the search box and hit the [down] key update: hit the [period] key — Gawker.com), you get a list of five people. Who are they? The following prowlerey theories are circulating.

• five people you’ve searched for the most.
• five people who have searched for you the most.
• five most recent people who have searched for you. Juicy! (we probably show up for The Grey Lady, Saucy Aussie, Princess Glitter Bunny, and Atomic Fireball Candy, and that girl you all thought we would hook up with the other night but didn’t. Did we leave anyone out?).
• five people Facebook thinks you like. We could be wrong, but based on some tinkering and some guesswork, we think they use the following snippet of basic fucking arithmetic to figure this out:

Of course, that’s pure speculation. Just, umm, make sure you throw (= 5) somewhere up in there. Calculus is whatever we want it to be.

Go ahead and scope out ours, just for shits and giggles.

Who’s in your five?

In yesterday’s math lecture, since I sat behind Princess Prettypenny, I could overhear her gossip to her friend about the professor.

"He seems like a creepy old man."

At hearing that I was a bit surprised, and maybe slightly offended on his behalf. I can usually kind of detect traces of sleaze in someone, and this soft-spoken professor is the last person in whom I’d probably see it. During our last recitation, while Princess Prettypenny actually pulled the coy, clueless act, the professor just ignored it.

She brought her homework up to the desk, affecting a cutesey pose with a cutesey smile. "I stayed at Hale til twelve-thirty in the morning finishing this!" Oh my gawd!

The professor thumbed through her work, nodding indifferently. At length, he replied "That’s….." and let the word trail off and hang there while his red pen flourished through her notebook. So either (A) he was trying hard to think of a polite phrase to validate her struggle — maybe midnight is really late in Kansas — or (B) those two did actually fuck mere minutes before class and he was cleverly trying to play it off. Whatever, no one’s radar is perfect.

All I can add to this is that the only reason I’m ever in the library at 12:30 a.m., or any hour of the day for that matter, is because of the anonymous sex with nerdy strangers in the fourth-floor stacks. I take extra care trying not to touch the — ew! — books.