FM is back: bronzed, corrupted, and with a little bit more experience underneath our belts or bikini bandeaus. Amid the pool aerobics, banana daiquiris and techno renditions of the thong song, FM has picked up some brand-spanking-new trinkets on our spring break rendezvous: nearby ivy league boyfriends, drinks with Mafia-connected priests, protection à la Coppertone, and shiny silver bracelets. But not all silver shines. Spring Break brought about its own risks. We boarded airlines whose insignias were sketched into oak-tag posters. We observed how boring the Midwest really is. We spent quality time in the Square and even worse, with the parents.
It was a needed hiatus; one in which we combed the isles of the Caribbean and felt the hot breath of the Mexican federallies on our necks--all in a hard day's night. Most importantly, FM realized that Spring Break did not have to leave us like a freshman girl the morning after--alone. We could conquer Spring Break. FM could push it to its limits and extend Spring Break to our daily Harvard lives. And that we've done.
We've visited Cambridge's erotic bakery and tasted some more of the sweets that with which our week off tempted us. We have strolled with the flamboyance of Tom Wolfe. We have posed nude while making ourselves the presidents of our own imaginary countries, for academic purposes only, of course. Finally, we have tasted some pudding but have spit it back out. Pudding is too tart for the tastes of FM.
But, we don't fret. There is more dessert to be had--in Cadbury cream eggs and in scrumptious compers. If all else fails, there's always the whipped cream that grazed the body of what's her name backing that ass up. No need to go there. Order us up a few Fosters instead, at Grafton.
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