The literary world is abuzz with the discovery of the only known dramatic work of Ludwig van Beethoven, written on a single sheet of quarto paper and inserted in the composer’s aged, cracked wallet along with brothel chits and deaf-aid coupons. Only last year’s find of some charcoal nudes by Shakespeare, tucked into his high school yearbook between two pages rarely separated by literary historians, has had similar impact.

The days of facial ignorance are behind me, I’m slowly morphing into a hobgoblin of the highest order in my 23-years and I’m done shaking my gargoyle fist at the stars about it. I am a man surely soon to be damned to a life in the shadows of some long-forgotten David Cronenberg cathedral. With a missing canine tooth, the hair of a disgruntled Locks For Love terrorist, and one functioning pair of ink-stained Levi’s, I look more like the type of guy who writes erotic Neil Young fan fiction than a dude who you’d want to help give directions to the nearest ugly haven.

I wanted to learn one song on the piano. A single song from beginning to end, no slip-ups. Why? Because it was there—like Mount Everest was for George Mallory. The moment I laid eyes on my nephew’s new Yamaha Clavinova CLP-625, I knew exactly what George meant.

I’m sure you’ve noticed me around the halls. I know you’re curious. I am, too. You’re funny, and charming, and you’re smart (which is how I know we’ll really click). You have a lot of fantastic qualities you could bring, if you were interested, to someone like me: Fiction Fanatix, the MSU bimonthly student book club.

The concluding tweets of the seventh and final day of the Lincoln-Douglas Twitter War …