So you’re back in Trillium, noshing on whatever you used to nosh on before you went away for spring break. The only difference between then and now of course being that now you keep finding white Caribbean sand in all of those hard to reach places of your body. No matter which way you move it feels like your wearing sandpaper underwear and for the first time ever it seems like there are more crunchy pebbles in your boxers than in your sandwich from the deli counter. My suggestion is to collect all the sand you find and sprinkle it on the Ag quad; maybe it will grow a beach.
As for me, I’m glad to be back from Spain. It’s a gorgeous country with a rich history, tapas bars and some pretty rainy plains, but everyone there speaks Spanish. This isn’t to say that many people in America don’t speak Spanish, they do, but they do it because this is a free country. It is my understanding that a long time ago some Spanish monarch found that it was much too much of a coincidence that Spanish people had the same preface as the Spanish language, and thus inflicted the language on his subjects. Before that bold move, it’s rumored that the Spanish people communicated through a series of hand gestures and the release of pheromones. Speaking Spanish fit the country very well, though, because most of their road signs, menus and newspapers were also in Spanish. The only problem was that I was in English, and I found myself ordering a glass of Zuma de Nariz at El Museo de J