Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Uninspired Lump Of Sod

MSN tells me I have one email waiting for me. When I sign in to check, nothing is there.
Explain.

The fact that there are multiple mnemonics for remembering the sequence of colors of the rainbow implies that at one time somebody assumed it would be easier to remember Roy. G. Biv than searing, unimaginable sky-light reality.
Explain.

I leave for life in nine days. The concept has yet to really sink in. I should probably pack.
You don't have to explain this one.

I have been thinking about starting a second one of these. Punching The World In The Face has become too one-sided for my polygonal tastes. I tossed this idea around before with the end result being "You don't actually produce enough in the ways of quantity or diversity to support two blogs, let alone one, you are a miserable energy-suck on all things bright and creative, go listen to more terrible hip-hop"

Upon revisiting, it turns out that this is still the case. But lately little things have had effects on me entirely out of their proportion, and the overall feeling is that my action potential is rising towards an inevitable discharge.
I am metaphorically taking in sodium.

However, since I am a filthy college student, my creative energies are devoted entirely to sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex less than productive areas. This is due, in part, to The Internet. Observe:

Joey Comeau is the kind of guy I want to perpetually want to become, but never actually will (out of fear and also I mean, if I ever did, then what would I do?). For now I am content with linking to his last post about pictures that are sexy. It is like everything he ever writes manages to, regardless of subject matter, grab your darkest prettiest secrets and simultaneously shout in their faces and murmur soothing nothings in their ears. This is no exception.

Ramón Pérez, on the other hand, draws fanciful fancies and I could talk about his stuff all day but instead will just link to his collective display of "girl fridays", those seductive and supportive artsy muses that artists muse about. He's lucky enough to put them on paper regularly. We're lucky enough he puts them on the internet.

This is pretty much the only thing I can think of worth starting another GunsforEyes installment for, but since I'm not an artist, it'd boil down to me posting pictures of pretty girls and slipping in a paragraph or two of crumb-spraying, knuckle-dragging oafish adoration. More creepy than charming, in short.

I pretty much do that half the time on this blog anyway, though.

To sign off and, more importantly, to act as a jangly distraction against the ugly truth of my slavering boy-osity, here is an annotated photograph I have just taken of the current state my bedroom is in - launch window t minus nine days.
Obviously I am an individual fully prepared for what I am choosing to label as "College: Round Two". I have been in the belly of the beast once before and I have learned my lesson.

College is exactly like how it was in Transformers 2, right?