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In This Issue

• loving miss maple
• iTouch [Myself]
• Babies Compete for Brangelina's Affection
• Toshing It Around with Daniel Tosh
• CCSC Proposes Species-Neutral Housing
• "Frozen" Director Warms Up to The Fed
• The Belgian Corner
• Extension Emails: What I Wrote vs. What It Meant
• Ergonomic Sex Tips for the Female Engineer
• the morning after
• hipster in cc
• They Watch
• Letter From the Feditors
• The Staff of the Federalist

Emily Hoffman

That flannel on your naked skin,
The anti-tech-folk band you're in.
That puff of smoke, those yellow teeth,
Those tight red pants, and what's beneath.
The smoked green tea you bring to class,
I'm begging you, just spank my ass.
You find Spike Jonze in every text,
Keep that pipe lit while we sex.
‘Off your glasses from yesteryear,
Pause your cassette, just fuck me here.
I yearn to sniff your Brooklyn smell,
I love your hair grease-natural gel.
Alas, for when you saw me eat
To say the least, you were displeased.