The Shame of It
A millennium ago, I was doing a collage for English. I think the purpose may have been to lay out a visual representation of your goals. I was tackling this task about as diligently as anything else by that point in my flagging academic career when I came upon some choice photos of some PPoF, and became confronted with a choice: do I steal the desired photos and risk getting called out by one of my peers? Or do I do the potentially less embarrassing thing by waiting until the room clears to request said eyecandy? Hopelessly outnumbered and out-eyed, I opted for the latter. You don't know what shame is until you've asked your high school English teacher if you could keep her Rolling Stone issue while surreptitiously covering the conspicuous image of a reclining pop-princess on its cover. The only thing that could make this worse would be to turn around and make a similar request for an old issue of Entertainment Weekly that featured a pictorial of the hot young stars of a certain breakthrough WB series. The dubious looks that such a request elicits are not easily forgotten. Perhaps if I'd been more studious with my assignment I wouldn't presently have so much time to stroll down amnesia lane.
