I’m going to be honest with you, reader—my sophomore fall didn’t get off to a great start. Sure, I had a few things going for me: a n+1 suite in Adams (the “Adams of the Quad,” which is Pfoho), an early admit offer from the Porcellian Club, the healthy sex life I had maintained since middle school, and a regular brain with no learning disorders. But still, I felt like there was a gaping void in my life that could never be fulfilled, no matter how many drugs I took away from friends who were trying to stay clean or how much meaningless sex I saved women from by being an incredibly selfless lover.
Suffice it to say, I was depressed, and since suicide wasn’t an option given my fear of death, I knew I needed to find some kind of cure. So in order to overcome my death-phobia, I turned to Eastern philosophy, but found the concept of reincarnation even scarier than the already extremely terrifying idea of going to heaven. Therefore, without the comforting certainty that death would be the end of all existence, suicide remained something I could only watch Pennsylvania State Treasurer Budd Dwyer (R-PA) do on YouTube or in the hundreds of flip book animations I had drawn.
So I began to see a psychiatrist, and after a few months of going out with her, I made an appointment with an analyst. While some people may dislike the idea of paying $200 to lie on a leather couch while some quack with a clipboard administers electroconvulsive shocks to your body whenever Dr. Milgram orders him to do so, I actually found it pretty helpful. For example, when I told my analyst about my fantasy where I walk into Sanders Theater with a fully loaded AR-15 to deliver a lecture on how to disarm an active shooter, he said it was just an expression of my resentment towards my father, who, back in the 80s, became the first “good guy with a gun” after he shot John Lennon.
Eventually, my analyst and I decided that it would do me some good to take a break and just get away from it all, so I applied to study abroad in Paris. But boy, did I feel stupid when I found out that, instead of applying to study in Paris, France, I had accidentally joined an ISIS training camp in Abu Kamal, Syria. Luckily, after only a week of training, I was sent home when a camp counselor caught me drawing a cartoon of Muhammad getting his dick sucked while I was in the girls’ dormitory after lights out.
As luck would have it, my flight back to Boston was hijacked by terrorists, who wanted to replicate the horrors of 9/11 by crashing the plane into a field in Pennsylvania. Luckily, I was able to overpower the terrorists and redirect the flight into the Pentagon. Anyways, here are some photos of when I went to Cleveland six years ago.
