Dear wretched hippie girl in my anthro class:

Hello. My name is Domonic and I am that chunky guy with all that facial hair who sits by the window.

Let me be frank. It has been been a mere two classes since we 'met' in that little airless cell of a classroom in the Student Building, but already I feel a burning loathing for you that, if not kept in check by my breathing excercises and prescription medication that makes my pee smell like melting tires, would result in my imprisonment for - at the very least - getting caught hiding in the bushes surrounding your (undoubtedly hovel-like) apartment waiting for you to come home. So let's get a few things straight so that I can survive this, my last class at Indiana University for my Master's Degree, without having to pour lime over your hobbled body whilst it reposes in a shallow grave.

1) Shet the feck up. Your opinions are useless because you are high all the goddamn time. I know this because a) your clumsy attempts at hiding the pot smell with patchouli oil is SO eleventh grade and b) your pupils are the size of a purely theoretical molecule, like a quark or something. A first-trimester fetus on Pitcairn Island would know that you were fecked up. So when the teacher speaks and asks of us our thoughts or opinions, I want you to remember how you got "Dutch-oven baked" this morning in your car with the windows rolled up and how you will peddle your rank undercarriage tonight at a party for a dime-bag and forget that you are actually physically present in this room. Neither I nor the rest of the class give a fancy fig for your thoughts.

2) Learn some fecking manners. If you interrupt the teacher or one of our classmates one more time with one of your 'profound' insights, I will be forced to staple your eyes open and force you to watch a "Simple Life" marathon in a room containing only a letter opener and a bottle of Kroger brand aspirin. Saying that someone or something is "stupid" or "lame" is not only judgemental but also infantile; keep it up and you'll be tasting your own pancreas. And, if I want to eat a Little Debbie snack cake, I don't want to hear about how Little Debbie factories enslave undocumented immigrants and cut off one of their feet so that they can't run away because guess what? I enjoy them, and by the way, Bob Marley is dead.

3) Take a fecking bath. Neither I nor my classmates desire to breathe through our mouths for an hour and fifteen minutes simply because you desire to make some sort of statement. You want to know something? You can be a pacifist/weed-smoker/Hindu/vegan/yoga practitioner without making people you come in contact with wonder if that's what being on a bus in Calcutta in August smells like. Your body odor, coupled with the fact that you wear open-toed Birkenstocks in January, produces stench rays that are visible to the naked eye. When I smell you - your human reek and your marijuana reek and that feckin' patchouli all mixed together - it makes my lunch rise to the top of my esophagus where it sits, expectant, awaiting my command. Perhaps if I chunked on your neck and down your shirt you'd do us a favor and allow Clairol Herbal Essences to give you an orgasm not achieved while you were so high that you thought your sexual partner was a Mayan death-priest. Oh, and P.S., I've only met one white girl for whom the whole "dredlock" thing worked, and you sure as shit aren't her. Shave that shit off; insects shouldn't be spawning on your fecking hair.

4) Stay the feck away from me. I will forewarn you: should I become partnered with you for our group project, I will require that you be at least three city blocks away from me at all times and I will NOT give you my phone number. Shit, I don't even really want to know your name because I am sure that it will annoy me by its very existence. I will do half, you will do half, and we will pretend like it was a collaborative effort. If you squeal... well, you know what's going to happen.

In short, I despise you already. It's going to be a long semester, but should you abide these rules, I shan't be forced to cut you. It's your choice, missy.

Hugs,

Dom