Dear Livid Readers,
Childhood is a state of mind, a state of being, and indubitably not the state of Montana. Some of us may have been children in the past, while others, such as Stephen Miller, were secreted from a convulsing, oozing pustule as fully-clothed, quivering men. The two of us are admittedly of the former group, and today, we gaze back upon our years of bare genitalia with deep fondness. The fleeting tastes of summer dance upon our tongues, creating a delightful harmony of ice pops, barbecue, and our fathers’ virulent cigar breaths. We recall the bliss accompanying the season’s first snowfall, and the disappointment when the blade of our sled detached, impaling Dylan Weber. But indeed, age has granted us perspective. We have regrets, some of which we will now convey to you in the hopes that you, captive reader, can learn from our wisdom. Thus, in hindsight, we wish that:
We had not framed our Tamagotchi as an accessory to a triple homicide so as to relieve ourselves of the responsibilities of parenthood.
We had learned how to Dougie, and thus finally impressed Rebecca Diorne.
We didn’t burn that fire ant with a magnifying glass in third grade.
We didn’t burn that opossum with a magnifying glass in fifth grade.
Our bedroom walls were not adorned with kissed posters of Stone Phillips.
We didn’t burn Mr. Garcia with a soldering iron in eighth grade.
We wasted our tenth birthday wish on world peace instead of an iPod Nano.
We shoplifted the sexiest Cabbage Patch Kid we could find at Toys ‘R Us instead of just asking our father for access to his Brazzers account.
We hadn’t spent an hour and a half in 2010 watching Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga’Hoole.
We more actively protested the anti-Semitism inherent in the gym class game “Steal the Bacon.”
We attended that Simple Plan concert when we had the chance.
Peace, Love, and Radical Podiatry,
In Other News
She is distraught that Joey has not responded to her calls for weeks about his care package and that nice girl from Bacchanal.
You can’t be emasculated by this guy. He’s got a ponytail, 1970s aviator glasses, and pink socks under his L. L. Bean boots.
Sixth Floor: PART OF THE COLUMBIA CS CLUB
Seventh Floor: PROFOUND AND EVERLASTING LONELINESS
Eighth Floor: WRITES FOR SPEC
For your reference, a good rule of thumb for networking is that, if Mo Bamba played in the background for 75% of our conversation, I probably don’t intend to strike up a professional relationship.
“Now, the dipshit’s gone and pissed off Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with the Thousand Young,” Core professor Ricardo Hernandez said.
In his concluding remarks, Bollinger made a surprising revelation: “I have been notified by my ancestors that all lands previously inhabited by the Lenape people have been granted to me, personally.”
Otis Wofford, CC ’22, expressed his discontent with the decision. “Women, men and gender non-conforming folks being a part of the same institution? The social justice warriors are out of control.”
At first we thought our challenges wouldn’t be insurmountable. We thought that with discipline, resolve, and a heavy dose of hard work, Spec would persevere.
But then came the op-eds.
“I’m told at one point, the quiz registered full attendance while only twelve students were in the room,” police chief Marcellus Johnson explained. “Something had to be done.”
“He just looks so thin and pale in his facestagrams that I knew I had to give him his own mother’s medicine: my famous Latkes!” Marsha said.