Here’s the thing everyone: sometimes I’m a real dumbass. Like, in terms of Book Smarts and being a Learned Young Man, no, I’m not dumb in that regard. In fact I like to think I’m pretty smart, if it’s all the same. But just in life? Real dullard, every now and then. And the danger about being a fool out there in the world is… well, danger, which I seem to find myself in more times than my parents would be comfortable with, probably. So, that being said, here’s some of the times I nearly died on this campus because I was being stupid:
Greetings, ladies, gents, and those who do not fall within the suffocating constraints of the gender binary. Let me get straight to the point. I seek to answer an age-old question plaguing many a Kenyon student: what the fuck is a market dog? This coveted commodity, supposedly more than just a hot dog, is sold for 75 cents apiece at the Village Market. However, these things of legend are but a mere fraction of the great body of Kenyon lore. But they are a mere fraction no more. On Tuesday, April 9, myself and some of my idiot friends set out to answer this question for ourselves.Continue reading
It is written in the contrails of airplanes slicing through the sky. It is written in the frown lines on your professor’s forehead when you ask a stupid question (yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question). It is written in jacuzzi bubbles rising to the water’s surface, breaking, releasing their hot air. Chris Raffa. Chris. Raf. Fa. Three perfect syllables. One perfect man. I’m here to wipe his record clean. He DOES think women are funny. It turns out he thinks I, specifically, am not funny. Fair point Raffa. How was your weekend?
“Terrible now that you brought me up again in a Catchup.”
“Chris it’s only because I want your attention.”
How can you become a diamond on Old Bob’s necklace of kindness? I honestly have no idea. He’s never even given me a second look when I walk up to the dessert section (which is frequently).
When I first pitched this idea it was supposed to be a joke, I thought to myself [read aloud in Cookie Monster fashion]: “haha dis a funny bit and I rely on external validation to live. Me want laughs. Me get laughs.” Hubris. Pure hubris. I thought all this crap would end with the first day of spring. I thought the sun would come back and I’d shed my seasonal depression like a drunk girl shimmying out of skinny jeans at the end of the night. I thought I could blame all my vices, all my misfortunes, on the dismal, Dante-esque circle of hell that is Ohio winter we all just slogged through, but instead I still wake up in the mornings, sun pouring through my window like what should be hot coffee, feeling like a Moxie turd crushed underfoot in the library pit.