As I look back on my life, I find myself overjoyed with how fortunate I have been, but disappointed with the decisions I have made. And so, I wish to pass on these lessons I have learned to you, the faithful reader. Two things in life are certain: death, and young love. Taxes, which I left out, are only “certain” if you aren’t sleeping with an IRS agent. I love you, Judith. Though death is a wonderful topic, perfect for good conversation, I won’t dwell on the subject. Perhaps, however, you would like me to touch on this topic I mentioned of “love,” since the season for venturing into relationships and showing off your body on the beach is almost upon us. My experience with romance and all her many facets is limited due to my sworn vengeance against girls – especially during the early fall, when my Cootie shots expire. However, I am wise enough now to pass on a little fable, as well as some advice, so you may have a better chance with upcoming summer romances and affairs than I ever did. It was the summer of 1978, and this young lad fell in love with a smooth-talking girl from down south. She wore tinted sunglasses on her head to push her curly, jet-black hair up so only a few strands fell on her soft face. She drank her coffee black, wore a shirt skirt, and had an extremely long jacket. She played me like a pair of pocket aces. I bought her dinners and movies, and took her to the beach and watched her make every man, woman, and child envious of me. It wasn’t too long before she told me her dad was sick and she had to go back down south to help her mother. I was broken. I was devastated. My world came crashing down around me as I fell into a deep, dark pit of despair. Her father wasn’t sick, as a friend would later tell me. She had gotten bored, and I was no longer an entertaining toy. I felt betrayed – could I ever love again? There are many morals to this story: know your partner well enough to know when they lie about needing to leave and never see you again, don’t wear too much Axe, get in at least one fistfight in your life, and playa, please don’t get played. Take this story as you wish. My only other advice to you in preparation for your summer escapades is this: never lie, never cheat, get mad hunnies, and don’t get attached. Lying will never get you far, because I will always find out. That’s right, Sam Weiss ’09, I always know. Even when you take off with some better-looking, well-dressed, business type, and you don’t tell anyone about it and make up these stories about why you need to end our relationship and go to Chicago, I will always find out. Cheating is for jerks and Yankees fans. Don’t cheat on tests, don’t cheat in sports, and don’t cheat on me, Sam. It’s just immoral, and even the T.V. show about cheating is terrible. It’s got to be staged. There is no way Jack didn’t know about Charlene during the second season of Cheaters. When I say “hunnies,” I mean girls, and when I say “get mad hunnies,” I mean at least get their digits. Anything else, like taking them to a movie or setting them up with me, is just extra credit points. Digits are the biggie here. Attachment leads to suffering, look it up. I think the Buddha said something about this. Basically, girls are out to break hearts. So if you get too involved or too attached, they’ll take advantage and take off. And then where will you be? Crawling back to me, Sam? Just as soon as you’re alone again, I’m your backup option? Well, I don’t want any part of this. I’m done.
