Well, today is St. Swithin's Day ("summer's answer to Groundhog's Day," TM Dr. Sanchez), July 15, which means that I move into my dorm in just one month and one day. Bring it on, I say.

College is going to be so much better than high school. Fewer hours actually spent in classrooms, more knowledge acquired, shinier building. Let the enjoyable times roll.

When I got the mail yesterday, I was surprised to see among the bills and coupons a gift box congratulating me on my eighteenth birthday.

This was strange for a couple of reasons. First, it's been well more than a month since my birthday. And second, most of my closest friends failed to get me birthday gifts. Amazing, then, that a multinational corporation with many important things to do managed to remember the occassion, albeit belatedly.

The gift box was from the Gillette corporation. It contained a spankin' new Mach 3 razor and a thingy of shaving gel. Awww. How sweet. It's nice that they thought I'd be lost and confused as to my facial hair care without their shameless product placement.

Never one to toss a free product aside, I busted out the new razor and shaving gel today for an inagural shave. It's worth mentioning that shaving gel is much, much cooler than my sister's Caress shaving cream (for legs; my sister doesn't have a moustache that I know of), which I had previously been using (again with the freeness).

"Ooh," said I. "Three blades?!? Such a smooth, close shave. How did I ever live without you, third blade? I can tell you one thing, the days of my shaving with only two blades are definitely over. Fewer minutes actually spent shaving, smoother skin acquired acquired, shiny new handle -- you've got it all! God bless you, Gillette, for you have made my life so much -- OW! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

For some reason, the razor was bleeding profusely. As I heard my old two-blade razor chuckle softly from his new home in the garbage, I noticed the sizeable chunk of skin that was missing from my face. Perhaps, I thought, the blood was coming from there.

And it wasn't enough that I was dying from a flesh wound inflicted by a personal hygiene product or that I went through an entire roll of tiny toilet paper squares, my mother also decided that this would be a spectacular time to reminisce.

After much agonizing screaming on my part, my sister offered to call 911, but I refused. When I woke up seventeen hours later, the bleeding had stopped. And that's when I got to thinking (which is something one should never do after experiencing such massive blood loss). We've often heard it said that looks can be deceiving. The new razor looked good and wonderful, but all it really wanted to do was scar me for life.

What if college is the same way? What if I -- um, cut myself on the corner of a shiny building? Okay, so that's a little far-fetched. This isn't a "Moment of Truth" movie or anything. But still, what if I totally drown in all the homework and extracurriculars? What if all my professors hate me? What if the school mascot eats my homework? What if nothing special happens at all and college is the easiest four years of my life? Television will have lied to me once again, is what.