Wasn't he great, wearin' his important uniform an' makin' his big speech? Just cryin' out for his place in history... People like that're dangerous, Proinsias. They get yeh killed.
- Garth Ennis, "Cry Blood, Cry Erin"

"I Shit You Not"
I was shat upon today.
I was walking by the quad, going to my first class of the day, when I got hit, and hit hard. We're talking about a splatter factor of 3, from my wrist to my shoulder. I'm pretty sure it was a bird... but I also have reason to believe that it was a bird working by order of Those Damn Squirrels.

"Um..."
St. Patrick's Day always reminds me of the same thing: This story idea I've had since high school. It begins with the image of a cold and sandy stretch of the Irish coastline of days of yore, and an African tribesman walking out of the Irish Sea with a baby in his arms.

It's that baby boy's story, though to this day I'm not sure exactly what that story is. I do know that there's a great deal of cultural clash and alienation and Catholicism involved. I know that there's a ghost or two, and a fair amount of scrapping and yelling, and the antequated euphemism "smoked Irishman" is used once or twice, but beyond that... I don't know.

No leprechauns, though. That's just silly.

I should do other things now.
War. Hmm. I don't know.