Dear Sweet Kaitlin Phillips,

Here at my desk I sit, exhausted, gut protruding with carbohydrates, eyes wet with the tears that come from two straight days of book arts. I cannot tell you how many colored pencils I have abused this weekend, how many tables I have stained with glue, how many times I have watched “Robin Hood Men In Tights” or how many Songs For A New World I have let bellow into the night, praying you might hear. Indeed, I am still pining for the scrumtrulescent day we meet, before you undergo that cruel process called graduation; the day we spot each other on opposite sides of Ankeny and frolic into each other’s arms, potentially naked.

Much has happened since we last pen-palled…

1. Spring Break: I traveled to Naples with my apartmates and stayed in a hostel called Giovanni’s House. Giovanni (roughly 65 years) cooked us dinner, sang us Beatles songs on his guitar with built in harmonica, and attempted one morning to give me an ass massage while I waited to use the shower. (I swear these things never happen to anyone else.)

2. I turned 21 and woke up the next morning with bruises.

3. My roommate had oral sex with someone I was more or less dating on two separate occasions (i.e. two separate people).

4. We were without water for four days. We nearly fully harvested jenkem. As a means of taking one for the team I pooped in a bag and threw it out a fourth story window.

5. Sam Moulton and Etasha Bhatt and Carol Schaeffer AND some Whittie I don’t know slept in my bed (though tragically not at the same time).

And with lucky number 5, I am off to bed. Since I cannot say it enough, I love you Satan. I love you so much. I cannot wait to have cookies and pillow talk with you. Please do not graduate. Think of the year you’ll be wasting working in the real world when you could be writing scandalous songs with me. Think of the sadness you will feel not knowing when you will hear one of my disgusting tales in person. Consider the dry cleaning bill.

That is all.

Love and motorboats,

C

My lovely Caitlin Tortorici,

Your ability to get into ass massage situations with older men astounds me. Truly, someone is sending you a sign.

I’m currently involved in a marathon of The Office, trying to ignore the many papers that continue to pile up. My senioritis has become extremely dangerous. As much as I would love to spend another year listening to your sexy tales and hearing your dulcet tones cry “Satan!” up my stairs, the thought of writing another paper hollows out my heart. Even writing something as simple as a column chisels another little piece out of my soul.

This weekend was Drag Fest, which I attended for a total of 15 minutes, five of which were spent watching Tom Poole grope unsuspecting strangers. There was one couple in particular that he attacked—they were locked in a passionate embrace, unaware of the world, before he began mauling their behinds and stealing articles of their clothing. They were momentarily disturbed, but clearly were not too bothered as they quickly resumed their activities. Tom, barely covered in a periwinkle blue silk teddy, maniacally laughed before launching at the next innocent person.

Besides that entertaining lull, Drag Fest was generally disappointing. Standing with some friends (including one Evan Cartwright, who looked ravishing in a sunset patterned dress and dizzyingly high heels), we all realized that we knew a total of six people in the surrounding crush of crossdressed students.

“When did we grow up?” one of us may have whispered.

Indeed, this is the question that has been plaguing my brain. The senior committee thinks it is somehow reassuring to keep slipping a countdown into our mailboxes, taunting us with the time we have left. Relatives, professors and fellow students barrage us with questions, asking us what are our plans and expecting us to have jobs already secured outside of Whitman.

Truly, this is a terrifying time.

I content myself with the facts that some things, though everything else is changing in a tumultuous fashion, will always remain the same. Squirrels still ravage our trashcan and ducks continue to die on Isaacs. Tom Poole will always attack people in lingerie, and my male friends will always walk better in high heels than I do. Reid dances will always remain somewhat awkward, and my love for you will always be true (apparently, that was disgustingly cute).

Snowflakes and sunshine,

Kaitlin