“Hello, you’ve reached the winter of our discontent.” – Reality Bites
Northwestern, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not your Valentine, and I’m not your pledge mom. My laptop broke again, but I haven’t called on-site service since the last guy fixed my computer then asked me to zip up his coat. I’ve been borrowing socks from the girl down the hall because laundry just isn’t happening this week, and my idea of entertaining myself is having paranoid delusions that the university is trying to kill me, then pondering who would win in a fight: me or Northwestern.
So I don’t know what to tell you, Northwestern, except that it’s Winter Quarter and it sucks and blah blah Dean John Lavine blah. But if you’ve got the Winter Quarter Emos, you know what it’s really about: survival of the fittest.
Back in ye olden days (and by “olden days” I mean circa 1.8 million years ago), the times, they were a-changin’. Carlton Cavedude was busy hunting, gathering, and not getting eaten by pterodactyls. His cave wench was raising her cave babies, and I’m sure they were all doing wonderful cave things. Maybe spelunking, or digging for buried treasure… we can’t be sure. Point is, our ancestors lived harrowing lives. And then they died. So what made them wake up and spear a dinosaur every day (Full disclosure: I have no idea what I’m talking about.) Our ancestors survived just long enough to have wild, unprotected cave sex and pass on their DNA.
Because, as you know, survival of the fittest is all about passing on your genes. Or at least your jeans onto some hairy dude’s floor, if we are talking Winter Quarter at Northwestern. Essentially, it’s sifting out who can a) prepare and wake up for 9:30 a.m. classes after b) getting drunk and making some evolutionary mistakes in the primordial sludge of Frat Row, then c) finish homework / kick someone’s ass in FIFA / probably just lose in FIFA, and d) still have enough energy at the end of the day to reproduce. It’d be funny, if it wasn’t so jarringly true.
And I don’t think we’re feeling fit, dear Northwestern. We’re tired. We’re cold. We’re tired again. Bloodshot eyes, dark circles and sallow skin just aren’t the aphrodisiacs they used to be, and everyone is as pissed off as Mika fans. With spring still weeks away, what are we to do?
My extensive Internet research prowess tells me that there are two ways to circumvent the lifeless dating scene to stay virile: smoke pot, or get an STD. There’s PotPartner.com, “a dating site pure and simple, and for people who like to smoke marijuana.” No, absolutely nothing is strange or unrelated about that sentence.
The other option is PositiveSingles.com, “a warm-hearted and exclusive community for singles and friends with STDs.” I’m not sure that I’d spin having gonorrhea as “exclusive,” but you know, that’s me. It’s an option.
If you don’t smoke up or have itchy genitals, then I suppose you’re shit out of luck. But to be fair, I’m pretty sure survival of the fittest was more about doing something worthwhile with your life, and less about getting pregnant / high / the clap. Then again, maybe that’s what it’s all about — like I told you, Northwestern, I don’t know what to tell you. Moving your car at 7 a.m. in negative-10 degree weather isn’t anyone’s idea of a party. But at least you won’t get eaten by a pterodactyl.