An Open Letter to One of My Groups of Enemies
Here is a letter I attempted to have published in the miscellany news. I’m not totally sure why they turned it away. Perhaps it was the masturbatory reference, I think they frown at that.
An Open Letter to the Conspirators.
It must end, this bed flipping nonsense. Last week it was cute. Mainly because it evoked memories of my nemesis, Eli London, whose bed I flipped on countless occasions last year. But with Eli abroad I believed the shenanigans at an end. “Not so!” roared the world.
Two Tuesdays ago I returned home from a busy day of classes and self-loathing to find my mattress flipped, a note replete with smiley faces and hearts reading “Love Eli” upon it. How could this be? Eli was in Spain. Who is this dastardly surrogate? I could only hope it was an isolated incident. Then it was flipped eight more times in four days. On Sunday I suffered the ultimate indignity: waking up on my bare, forlorn, flipped mattress.
My mind reeled. On top of the usual, enduring questions I am always asking myself (what is the marginal cost of living, and does it compare favorably to the marginal benefits? Is it healthy to hate myself so much? Why don’t most girls like me?) I was forced to add several more immediate ones. Who was perpetrating such vile crimes? How many were involved? How do they know when I’m not in my room? Also, just, like, what the fuck?”
I know it was someone on the soccer team, because no one not on the soccer team was aware of that aspect of my relationship with Eli. Further, because I have a weird hierarchically structured view of the world based on age I didn’t think anyone younger than a sophomore would dare it – a freshman flipping a junior’s (even a social nonentity such as myself) mattress is unthinkable. Despite my narrowed down search, I was still blocked at every turn by denials and shrugs. Swarthy, dour miscreants would look me in the eye and tell me they hadn’t seen a thing before skulking off to “get big” at the gym.
My “friends” are unimpressed. “Just lock your door,” has been the most frequent response. I will not lock my door. I keep my key safely in my desk where I can’t lose it. That’s a $75 fee, and sadly my assets aren’t as limitless as my capacity for self-indulgence. Further, locking my door would be an oblique response, one smacking of defeat. The issue is not my locked door; it is that there are criminals on this campus and I am the victim of their chicanery. To lock my door would be to imply that I am somehow complicit in this farce. Not to have whatever female stumbled upon this running away by comparing a serious issue with something hilariously trite, but you never blame the rape victim. I guess I could have just said that you never blame the victim and avoided marginalizing half of the human population, but I’ve already said it – what’s done is done.
Last week was flip-less, and I was convinced I had weathered the storm. Upon returning to my room on April Fools’ Eve after an alcohol run, (green apple four loko, for those who like their battery acid with a hint of apple) I learned I had been in only the eye of it. My mattress and bed frame were flipped. My Fridge was upside down. My desk was flipped. Thankfully I have nothing in it, just some pens, and condoms I’ll never use (I’ve given up sex to focus on my drinking.) Above it all was a message from Eli, that implacable, absentee Jewish God, “Who’s the Philistine now? April Fools The Leach.”
I was and am destroyed. My universe is upside down, my faith in humanity irrevocably shaken. Conspirators, I prostrate myself before you here in print. I abase myself before your ingenuity and faceless malice. You have done what nothing, not alcohol, not strange men offering me heroin, not the crushing weight of existence and the meaninglessness of life in the face of the impending void, has been able to do. You have knocked a Leach from his imaginary pedestal; a throne fashioned from the bones of my IM soccer enemies, empty liquor bottles and scorn for the concept of self respect. I will do anything that you want.
Just stop flipping my fucking bed.
This will be my only attempt at communication. Flip it again at your peril. I ask now that you stop. If it happens again, I will find out who has done it, and no force on earth will keep them safe from me. I will have my revenge. I will beat that ass, in this life or the next.
Over a full year later, my day of graduation was upon me. That afternoon, after the deed was done, the tassels flipped and I had became nothing more than another blip on the unemployment statistics, I returned home to find this message on my facebook wall:
with graduation under way/over I can finally say it: The Leach you may have suspected, hell you may even have known but i am saying it now for the first time: it was me. I flipped your bed. countless times. every day. multiple times in one day. flipped your room. walked into your room at parties, with randomly recruited people to flip your bed and posters and hack your facebook. wrote misleading notes. recruited an army of friends and loach detractors seeking your annoyance to monitor your every move. your class schedule. your IM games. when you went to the dc. everything. if you did not suffer by my hand personally, it was one of my legion of partners, coordinated so as to appear in front of you, whilst the other hand was callously flipping your den of despair. caused you to rage with wild conspiracy theories, wild accusations, self debauchery, and even a letter to the Miscellany News…..and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. your anger, confusion, despair, insecurity. your dumb ass forgetting to lock your door. the bald faced lies directly to your face. the thrill of knowing any minute you would come through the door to “beat that ass.” it was indeed a most excellent game, but sadly I will now have to go much farther than upstairs to defeat you. happy graduation, and if you ever return to school, you can flip my bed a few times
Kilmarx got me.