Quintessence of dust

I forgot my Mach 3 razor at home. All I have are some non-descript disposable ones, without lubricating strips.

I might as well be shaving with rocks.

I went to the Museum of Fine Arts today to do my first assignment for my Artist and the Making of Meaning class - it seems to be as pretentious as it sounds. I was supposed to make a list of what a saw. Not to name them, just describe them.

-Plate with blue script on it
-Paper with lines of ink on it arranged to emulate the profile of an Indian prince
-Stone carved to look like a caricature of a human head
-Piece of fabric with paint on it that looks like George Washington standing next to a horse's ass
-Spoons

And so on.

I thought about taking History of Jazz instead of this class, but at the moment I decided I'd switch, the one available seat disappeared.

I guess I can't complain too much, seeing as how I have a DOUBLE to myself, but if you look closely, the karmic points aren't even.

Emerson screws up Terry's schedule so he fails his Electrics class.
Terry's roommate doesn't show and he gets a room to himself.
Emerson takes away Terry's opportunity to take History of Jazz, which fulfills two of the general education requirements, essentially denying him the chance to make up for the class that he failed.

Terry: 1, Emerson: 2

I also got an email for a show I could have auditioned for - had I a headshot.

A fucking headshot should be figured into the tuition for a school like this. I'll have to wait till next semester so I can get the Emerson guy to take one.

Or I could pay five million dollars to have a professional do it.

I swear, there is no middle ground in this town. Charles and I where looking for a place to eat last night, and it was either Wendy's, or twenty dollar entrees at this Italian place.

Apparently all the good, affordable places are at Harvard Sqaure. Fucking Harvard gets everything. I gotta find some cool places over there.

I'm actually doing fine. My instructors are great, and the courses don't seem entirely pointless.

Taurus
Like the silent-film version of Phantom of the Opera, you'll sneak up behind a masked organ player this week and tear off his shroud, revealing his true, frightening self. Prepare yourself for the shock of this person's bare psyche, and don't kid yourself — you won't be able to put the mask back on and continue as if nothing ever happened. Life is ugly, and you need to get used to that. Instead of popping Zoloft like breath mints and drinking till your fiancée looks pretty again, embrace the unsightliness around you.

I swear, all my fucking horoscopes are like this.