Peach Pie and Pinky Promises: An Opinionated Note Written by a Pretentious Previewer

Found in Between the Couch Cushions in 2nd Lobby

It has gone too far, too far! I wanted to treat my high school sweetheart to a college hunt conversation over peach pie to make pinky promises about the letters we’d send by the end of spring. Ring by spring, I hoped it would foreshadow. Ring by spring . . .

When I say ring by spring I did not expect what the following fall morning would bring. To my chagrin, and, an awfully supportive 3C girls’ grin the episode did begin. I messaged my girl and you’d think with wi-fi on the mountain the message would send, but alas it did not. It read as follows: “trust the Catacombs, not” (I thought wording it like Yoda would fool the common decoda. You know duh!).

The sun rained down illuminating the skin of my Scottish kin, looking as pale as my eyes felt adjusting to the light. When they did, quite a fright ensued. Chaco wearing crowds dressed in the recycled styles of Yoko Ono and Bono. These all too mildly obscured a no bono performance for pro bono. A voice projected over a loudspeaker: “Remove your Sneakers and step up!” What followed I cannot even begin to describe. I could only watch and imbibe the contrived performance in all its naked glory. In the words of girls back home, “I can’t even.”

Beside me a girl simultaneously laughed and cried and tried to run away from me. As a bigwig fresh from a hole he did dig, himself, from the not so distant border did land on the hill and as he did proceed, untrammeled, across the metaphorical threshold of timeless friendship. (A ship that is unsinkable in my limited experience warming the bench of my high school sail team.) Therefore, an announcement came from the same voice speaker unspeakable, and I hope at a college like this, the cheer was only from the queerly inquisitive bunch officiating the scene.

The cheers resonated with the crowd as our newest member paraded proud and newly shrouded to the greatest of halls and shaded ever so slightly by the tower. Questions fluttered through the crowd, “has Charlie ever worn a shirt?” and “When will Elliot realize he’s not Drake in that jacket?” For heaven’s sake! These people kind of really take this seriously!

The Catacombs have gone too big! If the medium is the message, they need to find a new gig. They may maintain their wholly matrimony as they give their cata-lives with cata-wives, and no money, but I’d be zealous to deny that I’m jealous. I’m super disappointed that such a conservative Christian campus would say that’s okay! Yes, they chased me with their crazy pranks and menacing golden lion to pursue my MR degree at Bryan.

As for my girl, she never got the message! Never text message advice for the ages, because even in this day and age, wifi can change the words on the page of a love story. That happened to me. I last glimpsed my girl trolling the Catacombs table with a capital “C”—with honeycombs for her honeycombs.