Not so lost in Translation

Mylene Farmer is the new Baudelaire.

I've been having sex with CHM2210 for the past six hours.

CHM2210 is the premed weedout class, the ultimate career decider, the first rite of passage for Science majors. Organic Chemistry I.

No, I haven't been having sex with CHM2210. It's been anally fucking me like a 40-year-old gay man on a Viagra OD, sans lube, I'm the bottom. There is no other way to describe this relationship. I am Aristotle's eunuch if he ever had time to fuck, Alexander's abused concubine imported from the exotic islands of the East, a sex-slave smuggled from an ex-Soviet country currently imprisoned in an apartment with posters of alkenes and alkanes, ethers and di-ethers, and a 5000-piece carbon skeleton montage of Dr. Jack Saltiel's larger than life portrait.

Consequently, my lungs have taken the rotten appearance of an 3-decade chainsmoker's. My friends, I shall never give up this addiction. If there is a lesson to be learned, nicotine is the cure for everything. Except lung cancer and emphesema I suppose.

CHM2210, I will let you have your fun, but caution my dear master: I'm not cumming before you. When you've exhausted all the positions in the kama sutra and your penile fluids, I am gonna cum so hard and long you're gonna be drowning in my sweet pussy juice.

Introduction to Post-Colonial Literature, on the other hand...now that's some nice pussy.