This is an idea I had during my freshman year of college when high school graduation was fresh in my mind, and in particular, the hundreds of thank-you cards that I had to write following my graduation party.  As I sat there in my dorm room, ready to spark a freshly packed bowl, I thought about what those cards would have said if I had been less ideal about the content, and more realistic. In essence, what if I told my friends and family the truth about how I would spend their money instead of just what they wanted to hear? Naturally, I embellished in some areas, but this is what I came up with.

Dear Uncle Jeff and Aunt Mary,

I just wanted you to know how grateful I am that you were able to attend my high school graduation party, and for your investment in my future.  I would like to inform you that it will be put to good use and assist me in furthering my education, but I would be lying.  In reality, your donation will encourage the opposite.  Along with a collection of hard-earned money from various other relatives, I will be taking your generosity straight to the smoke shop to purchase an unnecessarily over-sized bong with more chambers than a human heart.

I promise to spend hours of valuable study time smoking myself to the borders of mental paralysis, and watching South Park reruns interspersed with internet porn. On the days that I am able to fight off the soothing ebb and flow of apathy and assemble the motivation to attend class, I will be waaay too high to pay attention but will instead doodle and admire the aesthetic perfections of my more motivated classmates.

Now I may not always have sufficient food or the proper classroom materials, but there is no doubt that, at any given time, I will have more weed than a Mexican cancer patient. While I know living in a smoke induced haze doesn’t seem to be an efficient use of the short time I have in college, it will help me to tolerate the morons and assholes; and with an undergraduate population of over thirty thousand, Ohio State is guaranteed to be infested with them. Therefore, any dreams you may have had about me gaining a respectable occupation and achieving fiscal success, I will be forced to crush. But look on the bright side: at least I won’t be an asshole.

Sincerely, Your Nephew,

Andrew

P.S.  I may not be learning, but I’ll always be burning.

When I graduated from college last year, I did what any 23-year-old with an English degree would do and got a job waiting tables.  Luckily, I had a couple of good friends who were in high standing at a fine-dining restaurant in a nearby suburb, so I got to skip the soul-crushing ladder climb that was sure to be waiting for me at Applebee’s.  For the sake of exposition, a restaurant that’s categorized as “fine dining” basically means that the food is over-priced and the servers are required to do everything short of tonguing your sack (though some of them do that just for fun).  However, I justified this job choice to my inner over-achiever by rationalizing that I could find a service job pretty much anywhere in the country, and should therefore hone my people skills so I always have a back-up plan.  What I’ve come to find is that when someone says they have “people skills,” what they really mean is that they’re good at suppressing anger and keeping a smile despite an overwhelming urge to light a stranger on fire.

Like any employee who values their sanity, I try to take refuge from this seething pit of despair as often as possible, and my reprieves come in all shapes and sizes: from praying away impure thoughts of my teenage co-workers to locking myself in the cooler and screaming to curb a violent impulse.  They all have their benefits, but my favorite one is the mid-shift dump.  No amount of meditation or yoga can beat the level of inner peace a man reaches when he’s locked in his throne room while the world collapses around him.  Sadly, I have to share this room with the other 35 employees on staff, all of whom appreciate the inherent rebellion of pooping on the clock as much as I.  So, at any given time there are a handful of people looking to exercise their excretory demons, which inhibits both the duration and frequency of open opportunities.

Now, I’m not a man so unreasonable to think that other people shouldn’t have to use the restroom when I need to use it, but whenever I do manage to find that perfect window and secure my cheeks to the porcelain horseshoe, I’m never lacking for potential intruders.  Luckily, the door’s lock is a sufficient deterrent, but the part that baffles me is the fact that almost everyone goes straight for the handle.  The door is obviously closed, so what possible harm could come from knocking first?  Let’s compare.

Knocking first

Best Case Scenario:  no one responds and you try the handle.

Worst Case Scenario:  you bruise a knuckle and have to come back later.

Handle first

Best Case Scenario:  the door opens and the room is empty.

Worst Case Scenario:  you walk in on someone masturbating while smearing poop all over themselves.

You will note the significant gap between what could (theoretically) go wrong. I understand the latter case is an extreme and unlikely scenario; however,  it is still within the realm of possibility.  You may even be wondering who on Earth would do such a horrid thing in a public restroom?   Well, I would answer that rhetorical question by contending that it would be the exact type of person who would want a stranger to catch them in the act.  Is going straight for the handle really worth the risk of seeing something that can’t be unseen?

Every time I go into that 3’x3′ sewage asylum, I’m tempted to leave the door unlocked, bend over with my pants around my ankles, and wait. It will be a hard lesson to teach, but an even harder lesson to learn.  Will it ruin a friendship?  Maybe.  Will I ever be able to make direct eye contact with that person again?  I doubt it, but regardless of who my unsuspecting victim may be, I promise you that after that moment, they will never ever forget to knock.