Editor’s Disclaimer: We didn’t really know what we were getting into when we asked Anthony to write an article for Features. Last week, Derrick wrote much of the “Rage of Reyes” piece. This week, we figured we’d give Anthony a shot; he was a good sport after we told him we’d appropriated his name, so we threw him a bone. What we got is weird. Très weird. Anyways, enjoy the weirdness. This what you get, I guess, when you delve into the mind of a monkey. Red is a color that usually connotes love, warmth, and anger, but it was only bleeding through my skin onto the melting snow as rage. My little Lacoste alligator was hungry. It wanted to bite something, anything, and there was nothing in sight except for a tiny crumb of pork-fried rice from four nights ago. It was all up to me. My rage came only from watching the threads on my little alligator shrivel, threads sown on by six-year-old children in Peru. I could not take it any longer. Watching MTV play the same program for the sixteenth time in a row kept me from breaking into anywhere and stealing something to destroy for my tiny little alligator. It was the rage of heavy metal rockers breaking guitars that made me jump from my seat. I had it: the jones to smash something like it had never been smashed before by the rockers on TV. I ran into the Scotts’ household and interrupted a nice family dinner to get a guitar. It did not occur to me that the male friends of Tess Scott ’06 would beat me up for rudely crashing in through the window and for spilling the gravy on the rug. Now as I look at my bruises, created by little freshmen fists, I plead for forgiveness from the Scotts to excuse my wild, monkey-like behavior. However, I got what I wanted. So I could care less if you say sorry, Mr. Scott, or even if you say sorry for failing me in Math 100, because that was last year. I stole a ruby red guitar that was on a pedestal in Nate’s bedroom — red like the rage bleeding from my skin onto the melting snow. I ran like the devilish little monkey that I am with the guitar in my hand, swinging in trees so that PAPS couldn’t catch me. So I finally landed on the roof of my dorm, Stuart, and swung myself onto my safe balcony (yes I have a balcony). The scent of the pot pourri of Spaghetti-O’s, rotten Chinese food, chlorine, and sweat indicated to me that I was home at MoTro, and that my alligator and I were safe from the Quadruple Fours (PAPS x4444). My nostrils were flaring and my little monkey tail was wagging violently because of my rage. I covered my left nipple to prevent my little Lacoste alligator from seeing me go into so much rage, and then I held the ruby red guitar up over my head, let out a high-pitched scream, and broke it. Stay tuned next week when the rage of Anthony Reyes ’05 peaks at an all-time high. Only time will tell what destruction he will cause next.
