The back of my neck is burning. My ears are perking up. I feel a hole being bored into my skull and whirl around to a swarm of eyes quickly averting my gaze. My first reaction might be that of paranoia, but realistically, one of a few things is occurring. With so many potential UVMissaries visiting, there are a lot of people present who have never seen dreads before. Whether fascinated or disgusted, they are curious enough to see follicular snakes in real time such that they may temporarily discard some traditionally acceptable etiquette of discretion. Perhaps they have been contemplating dreads but have been so far restricted by their parents, and are counting down the days until college lets them practice coiffure carelessness. Perchance they heard UVM was rife with negligent nellies such as myself and, slightly disturbed, seek the truth as to the abundance of rope-headed chillies bopping around. In short, should someone be looking at me because of my propensity to grow raw capital for the twine industry, so be it. No problem yar. Now, the second most logical reason for someone to be slyly sneaking a gaze would be to figure out if in fact they do recognize me from the paper. They crane around to see if, indeed, I am the physical embodiment of such weekly wasted space in the paper that, like vomit, is rutha repulsive but somehow also magnetic. If that is the case, well, I issue such folk a due and genuine apology. Assume illiteracy next time you open the paper. But, should the third and final category of stares be the true, I may not be so forgiving. You see, this third grouping includes individuals who read way too deeply into inane banter. If you should realize yourself to be one of these people, please remove yourself from your misled travels. Reform your tendency to overanalyze incorrectly. Identify when you are making too big a deal out of nonsense. You take yourself too seriously, and search for hidden meaning that you can lambaste. Why? Are you that bored? I respect everyone’s right to react, but not necessarily to do so in a way that publicly humiliates one without the humiliated ever being the wiser. Yes, that’s right. Airing one’s violent response to a wholly souless body of rigmarole is the impetus for one’s appearance as spastic. Go dedicate your pent up frustration to something worthy. Out of all the things in The Cynic to which one could write a rebuttal, why choose mine cheese? There are so many legitimate columns and pieces of distinct merit, and yet some so choose to make lame assumptions and complain about the one with no meat. Ah, howsoever long may it take you, I leave you with hope: your mind may find refuge in some other realm of thought that doesn’t reduce your evaluative skills to that of the theoretical partier you so damn.
