College is filled with pretty girls. You see them across the room and look at them longingly while they toss their hair over their shoulder and pretend not to notice you too.

Maybe, if you are lucky, they do notice you. They might look up- quickly, with a stare that almost knocks you right out of whatever day dream you were having about them. It is practiced. Or so it would seem. In a hundred mirrors around the campus every morning, beautiful, pretty, cute college girls are practicing their glance with pursed lips and electric eyes.

It was not my intention to write anything about girls, my convictions about girls, or anything girl-related today. Indeed, I came to the far library, past the main branch and the art building, so that I might pound out the kind of knock-them dead papers that I have so frequently been attempting.

I did not predict that the beautful girls I was avoiding to focus on my writing would also be here.

Fuck.