Wait, did you hear it? The sound of me vomiting?
Probably not. You two were making out so loudly in the dining hall that I could hardly hear myself think, never mind puke.
My blockmates and I tried our hardest to enjoy our dinner, but
it was impossible. You two were like a train wreck—awful, but we felt
compelled to watch. At one point, one of you knelt on the floor with
your fingers in the other’s mouth.
And then you giggled, like it’s hilarious that other people
have to watch you suck the crumbs of yesterday’s lunch from each
other’s fingernails.
And maybe in some places, at some times, that would’ve been
okay. But you were not drunk out of your minds at the Quincy Grille,
and you were not in one of the middle scenes in “Independence
Day”—after everyone decides the world is about to end but before Will
Smith saves the day.
You were in the dining hall. Children eat there, for Christ’s
sake. And you two carried on to the point where I hope, later in the
evening, you both attended a free clinic. Because nobody wants whatever
disease is making you think that everyone should have to witness your
oral coitus. Please, even I had to have a cigarette when you two were
done, and I do not know which end of the cigarette you’re supposed to
smoke.
Take this as a warning. Next time you’ll hear me, because I’ll be puking on your laps.
