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In This Issue

• I Was a Social Whore
• GS Day Care Caters to Non-Traditional Infants
• Tips for Keeping Your Room Tidy and Your Roommate Pissed Off
• Letters to the Editor
• Letter from the Publisher
• Marauding Interviewer
• Go Ask ALICE!, She'll Make You Feel Sexy
• The Page Five Boy: Carter Adams, InstaCeleb
• Power Couples of the Sexy 107th Congress
• The Perfect Comfort Food for When Your Girl Back Home Dumps You
• Martha Stewart - Living?
• Fed Quiz: Find Your Perfect Columbia Mate
• Homeless Style = Hot
• Amihotenoughtogetlaidsoon orwhat.com
• Third Annual Fed Date Results In Tragedy
• Environmentally Conscious Martha
• JJ's Place: A New Home for Campus Discrimination
• Wacky Fun Whitey
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 17.3

It he weren't a celebrity, he wouldn't be able to twist his left arm around like that.

Carter Adams: he stole our hearts, our wallets, and our women.

Carter Adams

by Carter Adams. That's right, THE Carter Adams

This is the man whom I need to survive

Kate Sullivan

(Erratum: For "girls' school," read "women's college." --Ed.)

When the Fed asked me to offer myself as prize in the annual Activities Day raffle, I wasn't so sure. I thought, "What, so passing strangers can compete for ownership of me? Objectified like a piece of meat? Like your own personal Barnard toy?" So of course I gladly accepted. There isn't a single chick in the girls' school across Broadway that wouldn't leap at such a chance!

Think of the benefits: I could meet a guy. I could get a date with said guy. I could catch said guy in my nets and keep him. I need to get married sometime, don't I? I need to start now, if I'm going to get ahead in the game. It's a competitive world out there.

So my publisher put up a big sign that he drew all by himself, and I was "Prize #5, An Authentic Barnard Chick." Of course he had to label me as such, and so, after asking me to tie up my shirt to show more skin, wrote "Win me in the Fed Raffle!" on a sensitive part of my chest. I wore my tightest jeans and pinkest Barnard T-shirt in the hopes of attracting some good-looking Columbia men.

And the lucky winner? A virile young SEAS student named Carter Adams. He was excited to win, but I don't think he fully understood the extent of his winnings. How could he know then that I needed to be his future wife? God knows women aren't meant to be burdened with such things as monetary independence and autonomous thought for very long! I need a man to take care of that for me...

He played hard to get at first, never coming by the Fed office to pick up his prize. I slept among the back issues strewn across the floor of our Lerner office, eating celery sticks, all the while fantasizing about being the wife of a well-to-do electrical engineer. We'd live in Connecticut with a big three-story house, and have five boys named Brandon. And one girl named Brandi.

When the Fed staff could no longer afford to feed me, they ended my agonizing anticipation by tracking Carter Adams down and beating him until he agreed to take me off their hands. And at last I was united with my one true love!

So he took me back to his dorm room and asked me to do his laundry. And I did it well-I aced my ironing final at Barnard. He asked me to get him something to eat. So I prepared a salmon flambé with ricotta spinach dumplings as a side, with chocolate soufflé for dessert-Martha Stewart ain't got nothin' on me. In my first year seminar class, I learned that the best way to keep and control a man is through continued and skilled manipulation of his cock. And so, of course, I offered him my expert sexual services.

He began to drift away from me when I started to iron and fold his underwear. Next thing I knew, he suddenly couldn't stand the way I cut his sandwiches into heart shapes or how I would wipe his nose for him or how I'd ask him permission before leaving the dorms or how I refused to use contraception any more. I am no longer allowed in John Jay.

Carter, baby, if you are reading this now: I love you. Marry me. I need you. I know your schedule. I watch you every day. I need to be with you. And stop flirting with that guy Mike in your psych class, or I'll bash her head in with a pipe. Then maybe you'll be less tempted to touch his soft silky hair all the time, you dishonest bastard! You belong to me! Keep away from him, Mike you bitch! He's mine. Forever, Carter. Forever.

No, this is the man whom I need to survive

Mike Noble

Sigmund Freud taught the world that a dream can be a window into the secret intricacies of the human subconscious. By closely analyzing our nighttime mind-play and freely associating its latent content, we can see our secret desires and hidden feelings. So what have I discovered from my dreams? That Carter Adams is a goddamned bastard. And I'm in love with him.

I had this weird dream last week. I often don't remember even the slightest bit of my dreams, so when something remains in the morning, it has to be important. This particular dream was set in the world of the movie Fight Club, outside of the house where Brad Pitt and Edward Norton lived and made soap. For some reason, I was trying to beat the living daylights out of Carter, launching many a kung fu-style kick and three-fisted monkey attack. But it was all in vain. The little bugger was catching punches and blocking kicks like Bruce Lee on speed, all the while not breaking a sweat, and giving me a sexy, um, I mean dastardly, smile.

If Freud's correct, there must be some point to all of that, right? Last Thursday, as I desperately tried to keep Professor Terrace's gaze of sleepy sleepy death away from me in Science of Psychology, this girl sitting next to me said it means I have an inferiority complex. Bullshit! Why would I feel lower than that big jerk? He's not the boss of me! I mean, just because he's so smart and so handsome and, um, no, I mean... ugh...

Now, you might be wondering, who is this Carter Adams? Well, he's a first-year in SEAS, supposedly an illustrator for the Fed, and winner of the Barnard girl in the FedRaffle at Activities Day. He's got soft brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and milky white skin that just begs to be caressed. Also, Carter is a native of Athens, GA. He loves to brag about knowing many alternative rock stars, such as Jeff Mangum from Neutral Milk Hotel and the boys in R.E.M. Listen, man, just because Michael Stipe sends you a restraining order doesn't mean you "know" him. So that's the wonder... er... blunder that is Carter Adams.

There's more to the dream, though. This is the weirdest part: during the fight, I wasn't just using hand to hand combat. I kept trying to grab any long, slender, penetrating weapon I could find: swords, trees, sticks, poles, rods, shafts. I even tried to hit him with a long train going into a tunnel! But he evaded them all with his snappy reflexes. Damn that sexy bitch!

What does this all mean? It means I want to make sweet monkey love to Carter...no!... I mean... I want to kill Carter Adams. Ugh, so confused... maybe I'll ask Professor Terrace what he thinks. On second thought, I'd be better off calling Miss Cleo.