indy surveys seen floating around dining halls this week have been collected, counted, recounted and have tallied up to shocking results. indy alumni coordinator led all comers in the race for most sexual activity in Canaday basement, as a midnight rush to the polls secured the landslide victory. but even as surveys and statistics whet our appetites for pie charts and the like, what fm really craves is a taste of just the tiniest piece of that pie.

and so we present fifteen minutiae. nit-picky as it may be, we just can’t get over the quirks and quibbles that endear and annoy, the peculiarities that sometimes make fm a little too fm. we scrutinize the bags on our shoulders, the linings of our pockets and the merits of those new-fangled low-flow shower heads. if only we could remember to floss twice a day.

of course, the gospel according to fm wouldn’t be complete without someone getting seriously pissed off. even as harvard’s devout ecstasy users unleashed torrents of rage, we had other bridges to burn. in a classic example of the juxtaposition of high and low culture, fm dirties its hands in the old boys’ business, ensuring our place on the world’s shit list for one more week. thank god.

here in our eleventh hour, fm already has its regrets. it’s the little things that haunt us—an em-dash here, the wrong date there. the writers’ cocktail meeting, the 1 a.m. dance party. all unfilled boxes, to be sure, but forgivable in the scheme of things. because we did make those blacklists. and we were only given fifteen minutes.