This is how B deals with end-of-term stress, ashtrays blooming on both porches. I wonder if this is such a bad thing. Yeah, yeah, lung cancer, emphysema, but I bet he doesn't bite his nails til they bleed like a certain Nervous Nancy you may know.
My end-of-term stress shows up when my bedroom goes from "creatively functional disarray" to "a crazy person lives here".
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