If you want real calendar events, look elsewhere this week. I suggest the outlets I usually look in, including the portal, and every single sign on campus.

Thank you, Candice, for getting bored, googling my name, and discovering www.angelslight.org, where another Briana Hansen has been meticulously expressing herself through crappy "poetry" about love and heartache.

You have inspired this week’s Calendar City. You deserve a cookie.

After reading her fantastic work, I was reminded of feelings I thought long gone. Feelings I once had for a creature too amazing to be called a man. The only possible name would be the name the world has decided upon...an ewok.

I write these poems in dedication to you, Señor Ewok.

It was a cold dark sunshine-filled mid-afternoon on a Wednesday when we met at the office. You wore a turtleneck and turpentine.

It smelled arousing.

It stung my nostrils.

You smelled arousing.

You stung my nostrils.

You looked at me so quickly with your beady little eyes and pouty lips. Just as quickly, you looked away. Had you seen me?

If you like barbeque ribs, there will be a cookout somewhere around the city at 12:30 p.m.

I remember that day too clearly. You mumbled. I melted. You spit up on yourself. I giggled.

It was meant to be.

On Thursday I couldn’t get your scrunched up face out of my mind. I tried.

I bought a Furby. It didn’t work. I put the Furby in a beat-up brown trash sack with its face sticking through. It couldn’t hold a candle to your beauty.

For all you out-of-season athletes looking for an outlet for your conditioned bodies, try Quiddich! Tryouts for Xavier’s newest intramural sport will be held on the greenspace, today from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m.

Let me hold your furry hands and scratch your hairy ears. I know I’m not an ewok, but we can work this out.

I’ll never forget Friday for as long as I live. It was the first time we spoke to each other. I walked past you at your desk.

You looked up.

Then, you spoke the sweetest words I’ve ever heard. In an innocent, almost inaudible tone, you looked at me and said, "Eh."

Eh. Eh? Eh! There was so much meaning wrapped into that one syllable!

I know I’m a fan of baseball. Go see the Sharks versus the Jets at 7:30 p.m. tonight under the lights at Corporation Inc. Stadium. It will be the bombdiggity.

Inspired by your nearly-inaudible syllable, I decided to take a big risk.

It was all or nothing. I wanted all or nothing. Life with you was all I could ever ask for. Life without you meant nothing.

I took the plunge. I asked you to eat lunch with me. I had no idea how you would respond.

Was I being too bold?

Were you just leading me on with your syllables of lust?

But a miracle happened.

You stopped gnawing on your right front paw-isn’t it funny how we remember details?-and you answered me.

You shrugged your shoulders and said, "Eh."

It was the most glorious McNugget Happy Meal I have ever eaten.

You play such games with my emotions, Ewok!

Speaking of games, the Cincinnati Fire Brigade will be playing Fire Games in downtown Cincinnati starting at 11:30 a.m. today.

Why? Why can’t I get your smell off my clothes when I simply walk by your office? Why can’t I get my emotional outbursts off my mind days after they’ve come about? How can I speak to you, Ewok, and really know that you’ve listened?

I’ve spoken to you directly. You answer me with the cryptic, "Eh."

To learn how to be cryptic, stop by Soupie’s Fine Dining Establishment at 11 p.m.

I can’t think of a good reason to get out of bed today. I sit. Alone. Not alone, but rather with my thoughts. They’re worse than complete loneliness.

If you think my poetic writing is bad, that’s fine. You’re entitled to your opinion. But I won’t listen unless you can do better.

To get better, you should attend a Poetry Workshop in Cintas Center at 4 p.m. with Billy Shakey.

As I walk into the office today, my stomach in knots knowing I’ll see your gunk-filled face, I smell curdled milk.

I think of you.

I sit down at my desk and start to enjoy my breakfast of doughnuts and orange juice. I somehow spill juice and sugar all over my hair. I leave it unwashed.

I think of you.

I see dishes stacked up to the ceiling, moldy and waiting to be done in the break room.

I think of you.

"A Talk about Personal Hygiene" will happen in Gallagher at 6 p.m.

Our time nears an end. I hear you’ve been transferred to another department.

Is this goodbye?

Why can’t it be hello?

Is there somewhere we could exist in-between?

You walk by me one last time on a Tuesday. You carried all your worldly belongings in your stout, furry arms. You don’t look up at me. Is it because you’re embarassed by your feelings, too?

Trouble with time management and following through? Attend the "Business Workshop" at a yet to be determined time and place.

Ewok, you stop for a moment and turn around. I wait for your precious last luscious words. You say, simply, "Eh."