With Fall Fest fast approaching, there will come the time where once again, you will have to weigh two options: do you stay inside, your flesh vessel (fleshel) slowly decaying as your soul slips into perfect, endless sleep? Or do you rise from your peaceful slumber and go to the only good thing Hofstra has ever had to offer anyone? Don’t be silly. This year, you’re going to do It. You’re going to There. To the Place. Fall Fest. There’ll be singing, dancing, merriment, drinking water (Thanks Much, Hofstra, For Your Endless Bounty), walking at a faster pace than usual, and paying more for things you already pay too much for—truly, it is the pinnacle of fun.
You will applaud and you will dance. You might even want to jump off the stage.
DO NOT JUMP OFF THE STAGE.
At least, not yet. Think about it, my tender blossom. Look into my eyes. Harder. Are you ready for that? All those folks, folks you haven’t cavorted with yet: do you know them? Do you know them? Do you feel them? Do you love me?
Are you ready for this kind of emotional investment? Look at me when I’m talking to you.
You will jump. Will they catch you? Will they lift you up? What if you smell like some kind of old meat—do you think they can handle you? Will you let them handle you? You have lovely eyes. So fear not: I’ve prepared a list of things that you can do in order to secure your safety during the Fall Fest at Fall Fest this Fall (fest).
STEP ONE. Be aware of your surroundings.
For the love of God, young man, there’s so much to see! See them with your eyes, the people you will soon trust with the task of hoisting your warm skin prison above them over a shared love of Li’l Wayne, as well as U2 but only vaguely. You will feel their hands beneath you, and some kind of bald god’s ever-watching eyes above you. But first, you must use your eyes. Your handsome, sensual
I’ll calm down now, just listen to me please with your eyes. You must be vigilant at all times, on the lookout for the following things:
A spray of vomit originating from one of the Fall Fest pleasure machines
Any signs of joy or the rekindling of childlike wonder
Angry animals, such as bees, cats and freshwater moss specimens
Candy with needles inside of it
The lovely arrangement of petunias I’ve sent you
STEP TWO. Fuck your standards.
If we’re ever going to be happy together, like truly happy, then you’re going to have to lower your standards. Now, that’s not to say you can’t keep them up when it comes to things like fashion or gourmet coffee. Treat yourself. But crowdsurfing is foolish, and if you’re gonna be with me then you’re gonna be above foolish things. Are you above me? Do you want to be? We’re getting off-topic. The people on the ground? They would touch you, and you need to know where those grimy meat mitts have been. They’re foolish things, and you’re above them. So I suppose that is good, actually. Lower your standards, but not enough to jump off the stage, but also don’t let them touch you, is what I suppose I want my mouth to type here.
STEP THREE. I only want what’s best for you.
We’ve been through much together, you and I. In fact, so much, so much so to the point where I think crowdsurfing might not be for you. Can I say that? Perhaps we could do another activity together. Do you think I’m cute? If it makes you feel any better, gardening is a fun activity that you don’t have to enjoy alone. Oh, my soft young love, do not jump. The Public Safety men will come for you, their bald bigheads and sausage bignecks will come sprinting—nay, jogging—towards you, with just the slightest bit of motion blur. It will be a cinematic and cool way to sever your beautiful little head from your body. They will not play games. They will not cease, or desist. They will not make the suggestion that I am, that maybe you just chill off to the side and try to smack a beach ball.
STEP FOUR. hhhhhhhhchhheeeeee,
So perhaps after all of my persuasion, my masterful coercion, you still want to crowdsurf this year at the Fall of Mankind. Will you not heed my warning? I’ve tried being nice. I’ve tried complimenting you on the perfect arrangement of your features, and still, you’ve ignored my advice. Well, Misster, you leave me no choice. When I was but a seedling, I attended Falling for Soup, just like you plan to do. Yes. It was a harsh day, with the warm rain pelting my outer skin, as my vessel trudged through hell and high water to see, in all their glory, one of the Performers™ performing. I was entranced, I was enthralled. I was sweating.
And then, out of the blue, a young man about your age and with your remarkable build approached the stage. He danced so gracefully and, naturally, jumped with both of his long legs. And did anyone catch him? No. He fell into the muddy dirt and there he lay. Public Safety scraped him from the ground and took him away. He was dead, almost completely. The moral of the story? I would like to get dinner with you. I work for a university-funded outreach initiative, but it’s totally third-party I have nothing to do with the school. This might be totally inappropriate but I don’t care. I’m extremely selfish. I’ll stop at nothing: 9147086237