Take my hand as we journey into the dark netherworld of collegiate life. I pray thee, have no fear as we delve into the seedy machinations of 18 to 21 year olds and press our noses against the underbelly of higher learning. This has been long in coming and these words must be uttered.
As I pulled up in front of New Hamp several months ago, little could I foresee the horror that lurked. What could I have known of "that which must not be named"? And so, like so many before me, I too have succumbed I too have relinquished my soul to this obscene compulsion.
Blitzmail. How innocuous it looks. That little icon sitting on your computer desktop. And yetlike haunted souls, we obey its mechanized call; the seductive way "Alert, zero one slash twelve slash two thousandthirteenforty-sixforty-two. Nancy I. Lai has received new mail from" echoes and swirls in my headthat compulsion to reply within nanoseconds of receiving a blitzthe dizzying rush of dopamine as you click "mail message" or type in the weird squiggly thing and the letter "m" (depending on the extent of the addiction, as the case may be).
But is the time spent in your room enough to quiet the need? I think the long lines of gaunt beings snaking around the BlitzMail terminals testify to the contrary. You tell your friends, "hold up, I gotta go to the bathroom" and slip on line, hands tingling, pulse racing, forehead slick with sweat. You shift back and forth on your feetleft, right, left, right. You check your watch. Huff. Groan. Sigh. Wonder what could possibly be taking that ill-shaven loser wearing socks and slippers so long to reply to what could only be a trivial message from an equally inconsequential friend. "Thou fly-bitten half-faced haggard," you mutter vituperatively. Again, flourish your arm and squint at your watch to make sure everybody else knows that YOU have places to go and people to see and that their existence is only a minor impediment to your pursuit of bigger and better things.
Ill-shaven loser-boy goes on his trifling wayobviously dyed-blonde, moderately well dressed (Abercrombie, of course) girl steps upand at LAST...the fruition of all your desiresyou OWN this terminal. You will take damn well as long as you please. Hundreds of blitzes flit through your mind. You'll tell Alissa how you spent last night passed out in the basement (oh no, you mean "general purpose or study space") of whatever frat you frequent. You'll blitz the prof of your morning class and tell him you missed class today because you were in the clutches of a little-known airborne virus to which you are especially susceptible due to the fact that you are perpetually overexerting yourself in your Herculean attempts to study for his class. You'll address the prof as "Oh Wise and Venerable Professor Who Ought to be Head of His Department." You ponder blitzing Mindy Chokalingam to tell her what an awesome comic strip writer (comic stripper?) she is. You decide against it because you don't want her to think you have nothing better to do with your time. You'll blitz your parents to inform them of the results of the Initiative and rant about the unbridled abuse of alcohol on campus. You'll describe in minute detail the (imaginary) Anti-Alcoholic Beverages Taskforce that you founded and currently head. You'll ask for more cash.
You grin and finally type in your name and password. The earth trembles and lightning crashes as you lean forward, heady with anticipation. But your eyes dilate as you discovernothing! There are NO new messages. Time to glance around to make sure no one has witnessed your shame and quickly dash off a few vital messages ("Sup, Evan. Haven't seen you in a while. We should chill. BLITZ BACK!"). You lack the energy to complete your blitz-novellas now that all that has validated your existence has disappeared.
You return to your friends and notice their consternation as they secretly wonder what you were doing in the bathroom for so long. Dismiss it by mouthing "cute guy" and excuse yourselfyou have to go back to your room.
Maybe Evan will have blitzed back by now.
