By Stacy Lace
My dearest Jack,
All semester, journalistic chemistry has been building between us. You’ve felt it; I’ve felt it. From the moment you offered me a shout-out in your column about “Bucknell girls,” I couldn’t take my mind off of you. I feel the time has finally come for me count the ways in which I love you. Since I really only know you from afar, I’m mainly focusing on the way you have entrapped me with your column. However, I will of course reference our few non-Bucknellian almost-interactions.
- I love that the first time I heard your name, it was during a game of “Where the Wind Blows.” Apparently, a large percentage of my sorority also loves you … and has proved it on several occasions.
- I love that as a guy at the peak of his physical prowess, you’re unable to run up and down a basketball court for a reasonable amount of time. It helps me to think of your skills as perfect for a quickie.
- I love that you drink almost every night and that your excessive alcohol intake causes you to frequent Taco Bell. I myself am a fan of the Crunchwrap Supreme.
- I love that you told us all about your college bucket list. I wonder which tasks you’ve managed to accomplish in your time here. While I know that at some point you “got naked” and rocked a tank top, I wonder if you had the opportunity to shower at the Bison, take a philosophy class or spend a weekend sober.
- I love that you accept that my day and night behavior are drastically different. I love that you accept my Thursday morning “walk to class of shame” outfit of leggings and a baseball cap. I’m partial to my navy University cap, but I’d rock one supporting any sports team you’re a fan of.
- I love that you created an entire “I love” list about the strange things you love. I, too, love warm leather, rice and America.
- I love the way you refer to your belly as a Franzia wine bag. Clearly, six packs don’t do it for me; it’s all about the Franzia.
- I love that you have perfected the Super Saturday. No one at the University has been able to truly catch my eye when I’m in my afternoon drunken haze. I now know that the height at which a guy stands is really what draws me in and gets me hot. Boys should truly take note of you.
- I love that you expect to see women in their bikinis. I understand how this objectifies my sex, but I’ll be honest: if I get to check out your Franzia belly, shouldn’t you get to check out mine?
- I love that when I told you I would write you a love letter your response was “That’s awesome! But make sure I look like a sex god so all the girls want me.” Yes. That happened.
So long, Jack. Next year, I’ll have to find a new “sex god” to worship from afar. Any suggestions?