Dearest readers,

As I walk through the valley of death, I take a look out my window and realize there’s literally nothing left… I think somebody ran off with my package this morning. But in all pomp and circumstance, these harrowing times and this current, dwindling descent of democracy and life has forced my hand. I’ve recently turned back to a familiar addiction — the whitest, powderiest powder known to mankind: sugar.

As I’ve been gulping down cups upon cups of sugar these last few weeks, I could have sworn I envisioned a majestic butterfly whisking me off to a better tomorrow, one where Budweisavirus no longer existed and the only mask I had to see was that oddly enchanting yet psychologically scarring movie with Jim Carey. Nonetheless, as my frail body begins to fail me, and my slender limbs wilt like the flowers in my garden, perhaps the time is now in order to right some of the hideous transgressions I’ve made during my time here on Mother Earth.

First and foremost, to my lord and savior Will Shakespeare, I’m sorry for my unapologetic ability to perfectly recount the most beautiful quote from MacBeth and completely ignore the other 99% of the story. “What, you egg?” [He stabs him] as poor MacDuff’s son is done in for, will forever dominate the vacancies of my mind with its domineering symbolism and attention to detail. The egg was the embryogenesis of life, the dawn of a new age,  the age of MacBeth. The subtlety of not mentioning the stabbing of the boy through quotes, but having the boy ironically sputter out, “He has killed me, Mother”, consecrates itself as the divinity of Mary, much like Jesus looked for his mother as he stood heavily breathing upon the cross. For the millions of Shakespeare scholars who prefer to focus on more serious things, I’m sorry for not being able to keep my shit together and move off to literally any other play other than MacBeth. It’s perfect.

Secondly, I’d like to offer a moment of condolences to my INFERNAPE in my 2006 Pokemon Pearl game, whom I had accidentally named “infernape”, in all lowercase, because I committed to a nickname without actually having the balls to follow through. I’m sorry I accidentally released you into the wild because I mistook the release to mean I could still catch you. Perhaps that’s why I ended up getting my ass handed to me on a silver platter by the time the Elite Four came around. If I had not been entrenched in my own hubris and utter stupidity, or if I had just bothered to use some chemical or mystical figure imbued into my eye sockets, maybe this casualty could have been avoided.

Speaking of eye sockets, I would also like to say sorry to my last pair of glasses, whom I accidentally crushed while getting up out of bed after culminating a night of intense studying mixed with an intense caffeine crash. We’d been together for nearly 5 years, going strong, and then everything changed that morning. As I cradled your shattered frame, I noticed the various scars of battle we’d fought through over the years: the orange juice incident of 2015, the hot glue gun disaster of 2017, and most recently the 250lb General Chemistry squashing of 2018 (a miraculous survival rivaled only by figures of legendary renown). I just want to say… thank you for being a wonderful pair of vision enhancers, and you will always hold a special place in some random trash can.

Fourthly, to my alarm clock, there are days that I really wish you’d just SHUT THE FUCK UP! And then there were times when you did… and then I was late, and then I told you to GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER! I never really meant any of that. In an intense moment of enlightenment, I’ve realized it was my own inadequacies to accustom my body to wake up at various points in the morning that likely led to several of these failures, not you. Although I will say, if your best tone was “Natural Walking Sounds”, you’re not really trying are you?

Fifthly, to my very first piece of broccoli, I’m sorry I violently chucked you across the room when I was little. Honestly, in hindsight, you’re not half bad. Watery, crunchy, with a hint of room for flavoring is miles better than the void of nothingness that is green peas. I’m guessing the impact probably knocked the wind straight out of you, and I’m going to further deduce that perhaps you were never whole again after that experience. And from what my mom has corroborated, that seems to be the case. I will make the express disclaimer, however, that this is not entirely my fault as your appearance does strongly resemble a tree. And when you see some of the California Redwoods, is it really a shocker if you don’t want something like that growing inside of you? Didn’t think so.

Sixthly, I’d like to extend a huge sorry to Hana Kitchen. When my roommate first recommended that I try out the place,  I made the grievous mistake of ordering a pork bowl. I’ll forever remember putting the limpest, dryest piece of meat in my mouth that day, the texture feeling so malignant and bizarre I could not stomach eating any the next day. However, upon another visit that was coupled with a hunch that my first time was a fluke, I decided to try your succulent Teriyaki Chicken Bowl, and it is the absolute light of my life. Rain or shine, snow or heat, midterm or final… that shit slaps hard. Seriously, how the hell is that chicken always so damn good, and why are the portions so much more reasonable than some of the other establishments around here (Woodstock’s I’m staring you bougie motherfuckers down)? Just keep doing what you do.

Seventhly, to that dude who spilt like seven dishes on his way to the dish return at Carrillo during winter quarter, I’m sorry I didn’t help you clean it up even though I was right next to you when it happened. I had a lecture I was running late for, but honestly that’s a pretty lame excuse. In reality, a king from the land of Bjorsgard summoned me in order to slay the ten-headed chimera that secretly stalked the fields of AS Senate Plants. As a mere peon, it was in my best interest to respect the due wishes of the king, and I had to set aside any morality for a few brief moments in order to follow through on his order. If I remember correctly you also spilled like half a bowl of soup too, which sort of got everywhere… I hope your clothes are doing alright.

Eighthly, to the Google algorithm, I’m pretty sure you must be confused as fuck as to what my personal preferences are. How would I know that? Because half the time I go exploring the web, I’m not sure where the fuck Google is getting some of these suggestions. Sexy vegetables in my area want to call me, really? I’m in need of a Shoedini? Join the Church of Scientology? Plan my funeral? Cochlear implants for the elderly? I’m sorry for what I’ve been searching to make you assume some of this stuff. To this day I have no idea what the fuck is going on with my personal data, but dear Google it seems you have absolutely no clue what I’m looking for. Don’t worry, I’ll try and streamline it so this data is a little easier for you to sell to third-party clients for ridiculous profits for which I will barely see a dime while you remove any barriers to the modern day notion of privacy.

Ninthly, to all my Frixion gel pens that mysteriously vanished all over the place in the Frixion Mass Extinction of 2014, with an estimated death of 100% of species (red ink, blue ink, and black ink). I’m especially sorry I lent one of you to Dominic even though I knew he was notoriously loose with his tip, and has a penchant for losing pens all over the place. I’ve long suspected him to be a serial writer, but I’ve yet to gather enough proof to bring him to court to write a writ to right his wrongs.

Tenthly, to the man who sneezed on my neck in CLit 30A. I’m sorry I said sorry to you like I was the one at fault. YOU FUCKING SNEEZED ON MY BACK! That’s super disgusting, and nasty, and especially in this day and age should be considered one of the most insidious acts known to the human race. Ugh! It was so slimy and nasty, and I had to sprint all the way back to my dorm to take a shower after, which resulted in my being late to my next class. I still don’t understand what possessed me to say such a blasphemous thing, but I completely revoke my apology. Apology rescinded, ungifted, and retracted. FUCK YOU!

XOXO,

Muckraking Man