I went to the psychic fair and was told I only have a week to live. What do I do?

EV: Well, I went to the psychic fair, too, and that hour and a half wait made me want to kill myself before the chakra-reading lady said anything to me about my aura. And then, when she analyzed my energy, she said I might be preggers. Believe you, me, sister, we are on the saaaaame page. What can we do? Well, I plan on drowning every cell in my body in malt liquor and forgetting the whole thing ever happened. Deny, deny, deny.

AB: Take a lot of amphetamines and avoid sleep for 168 hours. Eat two large pizzas in one sitting. Throw up and eat two more large pizzas. Listen to a lot of Kraftwerk. Construct a manifesto of no less than twenty pages documenting your intentions for the future of mankind, drawing specific references from Back to the Future II. Punch a guy. Dress up like a clown and see how many indecent exposure laws you can violate in seven days. Cum on her glasses (she’ll love it). Visit Neverland Ranch. Play the piano while skydiving (“In A Gadda Da Vida”). Smoke crack. I’m glad to know all that SA money is going to something nice like hiring psychics. Sigh.

I hooked up with a girl on Halloween, but she kept her costume on the whole time, mask and all. She calls me and wants me to take her out for dinner, but I have no idea what she looks like. Help me!

EV: Well, didn’t you care what she looked like when you were hooking up with her? Or is dinner and conversation too intimate for your liking? Better a blind, drunken hook-up than a real, tangible person that you can interact with? Do yourself a favor and take her out to dinner. This is your chance to turn back the clock and not be “that guy.”

AB: Determine a location and time for your rendezvous, show up at the agreed upon hour, and, well, look for the slut. She’s gotta be a slut, right? Nice going. Ravish that, man. Ravish.

I’m still holding on to some Halloween candy that looks a bit…suspicious. Is it safe to eat?

EV: I’ve eaten Tootsie Rolls off my floor the origin of which I couldn’t even begin to place. I would have to agree with Andrew on this one. Stop being a pussy, it’s just fucking candy.

AB: Much like dairy and meat, it’s always alright to chomp into some seasonal treats. Worried about razor blades? Rat poison? Maybe Ol’ Misses Jones didn’t wash her hands before dipping into the candy jar and handing out some unpackaged Skittles? It’s candy, man. Candy. Who is afraid of candy? This isn’t the Heights; I think you’ll be safe, sweetheart. Poisoned or not, we are always accepting delicacies at the Generation office. We know you are spitting in the brownies, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Why do people walk around UB wearing other schools’ hoodies? Do they wish they went to those schools?

EV: Maybe they have a family member who goes to that school, or maybe they transferred from there. Or maybe, unlike you, they spend their time browsing graduate schools and buying the respective apparel, instead of people-watching.

AB: I can’t speak for the whole campus, obviously, but most of my wardrobe comes from the lost and found bin at Chuck E. Cheese. It’s cheap, and the small sizes help motivate me to keep the pounds off. Yes, this does mean that every now and then I need to squeeze into a youth medium fleece for Ken-West Middle School, but hey, times are tough. As far as why I hang out at Chuck E. Cheese, well, I like skee-ball. And boys.

How much of this bullshit Diet Pepsi Max can I drink before my heart blows up?

EV: Before your heart blows up, your liver will probably become enlarged, your stomach lining will develop ulcers, and those adrenaline migraines, oh, they’re gonna be a blast. Once you hit those landmarks, you’re gonna be begging for angina. So, in case you didn’t get the memo, stop drinking that shit.

AB: I was five cans deep on Friday night around the time I started seeing visions of Ann Landers molesting Parliament/Funkadelic bassist Bootsy Collins aboard a spaceship made of Spaghetti-o cans that was hovering above Baird Point. By the sixth can, I was palpitating profusely and had to change my sweat-soaked clothes, fearing that a community of goldfish might move into my trousers and nibble on my toes. By can seven, I was in a bathrobe doing cartwheels through the Union, and around the time I finished the eighth can, I sort of turned gay. It’s Saturday, and I’m back up to can three. My flesh feels a little like fire but so far my heart has stayed in my chest. When I find the magic number, you’ll be the first to know.