This spring, I desire to clean my cacti. You see, my cacti sit upon my window sill, where they are subject to whatever sunshine that can possibly be derived from an Ohio winter. This particular area of my bedroom is largely undisturbed, for during the frost I hide from the face of Mother Nature. It is during this time that my courses are the most difficult, and thus require me to deny all forms of human reflex- such as looking out at an innocent snow. I must crouch, in lamp light, computing numbers- an obedient little robot. Any form of organic pleasure is an insult to my dedication, my ardor towards scholastic achievement. Thus my Cacti are dusty.