A Note to the College Kids

I love you, I really do. I remember being you, with a vengeance. Those were good days...Nine times out of ten, I find your complete and total lack of regard for other humans sort of endearing. I don't even roll my eyes when I hear you talk about how "hard" it is to be in class 15 hours a week. You're driving, while abhorrent, is at least predictable in it's ridiculousness: fast, jerky and with lots of braking. And when you're barfing outside of my window at night, I chuckle and go back to sleep.

However, there is one thing I cannot abide, and that is when you smell.

Namely, because the vast majority of you (I do attend an institution not known for it's non-traditional student population, nor for the amount of students working full time while also pursuing their undergraduate degree) have mountains and vistas and oceans of time on your hands. I know, see, because I am you right now, and I'm writing a blog. You can't fool me. You have enough time to go out and get hammered in the middle of the week. You have enough time to shop for eleventy-billion pairs of shorts or sweats with P*I*N*K stenciled on your ass, and matching Uggs for every pair. So I know, I KNOW you have time to take a fucking shower.

There is no excuse, my friends, for the graduate student walking behind you, the grad student who was contentedly marvelling at the picturesque beauty of the scarlet leaves against the periwinkle sky all set to a lovely soundtrack of the bells at Memorial Union tolling the hour, to suddenly turn up her nose and wonder why the world suddenly smelled like dirty socks. There is no excuse for said grad student to, after a block of mulling this over, break into a jog with forty pounds of textbooks and lunch on her back so as to pull ahead of you and you cheese-feet smellin' self. And then, for that grad student to continually look over her shoulder like a paranoid schiz or a thief to confirm that you were indeed still there, lurking like a bad aftertaste, smellin' up the joint.

I was afraid some of your smell might have gotten on me.

And Lord knows, I feel sorry for whoever had to sit next to you in class, because I'm pretty sure you're that one that shows up late and has to wedge your way into the middle of the row in the auditorium, and then there's no escaping your funk.

Word to the wise: there is nothing that says "do me" like a sorority girl who smells like your fourteen year old brother's dirty laundry that's been left under the bed for six months.