The two of us have had a really tough week. We thought the relationship was going great, but then Peter hooked up with someone else. This usually wouldn’t be a problem, but DA found out by reading Peter’s blog. And the real thorn in his side is that Peter contracted HPV along the way, so now DA is a shoo-in for ear, nose and throat cancer. To get back at him, DA made PB&Js for Peter’s lunch, but he used the crunchy peanut butter. One would think that after thirteen years, DA would know that Peter is extremely allergic to peanuts.
Ever since the two of us were accepted into Harvard—Peter by a stroke of dumb luck and DA by the broad strokes of lies that he used to paint his application—our relationship has grown worse and worse. It has descended into us trying to sneak subtle insults into the text of this very column. DA who eats his boogers and Peter who puts turds on his pizza both occasionally slip one by the fascist and rarely helpful Crimson editors. But we don’t discredit them too much; after all, nobody’s stupider than Crimson writers. We’re the only ones on campus who are perfect, so all the Crimson execs can go straight to hell! G-g-g-got that one in you fucking dickhead bitches!
I guess what we’re trying to say is that our first three years here have permanently degraded our relationship and us personally. Not only is Peter the scourge of DA’s life, but he is also the scourge of HUPD, the Ad Board, the Freshman Dean’s Office, and the staffs of Mather Dining Hall and the Cambridge City Morgue. And DA of course, will never be able to hear, smell or swallow again. Years ago we would have been holding hands and embezzling from our high school’s student council. Now our writing sessions inevitably turn into slapfights, and DA always makes Peter wear that humiliating wrestling outfit.
We’re fighting to keep this relationship alive, unlike all those freshman girls who promised us they would break up with their old boyfriends over Thanksgiving. Our couples therapy has been working wonders—the way Dr. Bok listens and then makes our problems seem so simple, our fights so juvenile, it is just amazing. He’s shown us whole new worlds—magic drug-fueled carpet rides, swinging subcultures, and the mysteries of the grundel. For those of you who don’t know what the grundel is, it’s the pleasure center of the male body. Our therapists haven’t coddled and fondled us like that since daycare.
At this school, everything taint what it seems. Some presidents who are hailed as geniuses end up running the place into the ground, and others who are old enough to have rode with Herodotus end up redefining frisky. To the casual observer, the infighting of the Bell Lap might appear to be the demise of the greatest column ever. We confess, it’s really just part of the elaborate role-playing of our S&M romps.
