Max-stravaganza

During my senior year of college, The Killers' " Read My Mind " got me through some particularly hard times. Or possibly it perpetuated those dark feelings and drove me into a deeper depression and made my spiral that much more downward. It had the potential to become my Helter Skelter  or, slightly more upbeat, the Don't Stop to my Bill Clinton. Either way, that track was there for me when I needed it, unlike the person whose absence made me in need of said song. Not that I'm bitter or anything. Anymore. Now, I have always considered myself to be a hopeless romantic, but I'm not sure if there is anything about my particular way of life or daily endeavors that truly warrants that title. "Hopeless romantic" is something that I wanted to be and the label stuck. I belong to that particular crowd of 20-somethings who, despite never having found it, laments losing the love of their life. The details leading up to this event don't really need...

I now have indisputable visual evidence that the universe is in full support of my addictions. I'm sitting at my laptop, alternatingly bitter over the fact that the new episode of Weeds isn't online and that I can't find the new Stereophonics album on iTunes. I'm all set to type out some depressing, moody, Ben Folds-inspired post about how you can't petition the Lord with prayer...when KNOCK KNOCK. Now, not too many people knock on my door. My room's at the very end of the hall and the leg work arouses more phone calls than half-marathon knocks. So who the hell could be at the door, waiting to blow my house down? Odds are it's someone who has the wrong room # or one of my roommate's bizarre Malaysian yakuza cohorts. But instead, it was a group of three borderline-attractive girls with odd, cylindrical backpacks. Yeah, it was a safe bet they were part of the new religious cult dedicated to Stan Lee, but at this point of ennui you'll do anything fo...