Well, I suppose it was bound to happen: a mental health website found Poor Impulse Control and linked to that last post. Fine, fine. I could use the traffic. I guess. Hard to tell what good that sort of scrutiny might do a glossy glamorpuss like me, now that I’m completely secure. Which I am. Obviously. Here’s how I have come to this conclusion: a bazillion years ago or last December, the unnamed university posted a position at my current level that would head up the unnamed university’s anti-hunger campaign. I lack ambition – one of my most endearing qualities, perhaps even exceeding my humility and moral sloth – so when I applied for the position I didn’t entertain any thought of actually having the job. No, I wanted to talk with someone over at the campaign about how spazzy and off-putting that campaign is. Small wonder, then, that rather than call and demand from me pearls of sweet-smelling wisdom, someone sent a brief email dripping with disdain and if possible electronic goo. I laughed. The campaign’s spring food drive is chugging along without any publicity or donations in my building. I feel like I should do something to save this situation from its inevitable failure, though I’m not sure the campaign designers would listen. After all, in email form, I apparently reek.

So yeah: what’s a fucking do-gooder to do when do-gooders are fucking up? That’s philosophy, yo.