OP-ED: You say Chlamydia, I say Justice
So roomie, lately I’ve become aware that you’ve been scratching your balls all the time. And I can’t help but notice the creams, pills, lotions and ointments that are strewn across the room. And the student health center left a message, they said the test came out positive. And some girl named Lisa left a note on our door, cursing you for not telling her about “the problem.” I can connect the dots. You got yourself a little case of S-T-D.
Can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve rarely given your “little buddy” a night off since you’ve come here. I mean, good God, you’re hornier than a goat on Jack Daniels and Viagra. I don’t know how you can even keep track of all the Stephanies, Laurens, Katies, and Emilys that have just “dropped in to say Hi.” It’s not that I’m jealous, I’ve had my share of mighty fine poon-tang in my day. It’s just that ever since I’ve arrived on the Hilltop it seems like even Father King has gotten more action than I have. But you didn’t have to rub that fact all in my face.
Far too many nights of drunken failure with the opposite sex have ended with me arriving back at the dorm empty-handed, only to find a big red X on the door. I swear I’ve spent more nights sleeping on the piss-stained common room couches than I’ve spent in my own bed. I know how you buy boxes of condoms by the dozen and love to boast about your latest conquest. But do you really need to keep score on your bulletin board? When I return to the room after sleeping in the vomit-covered hallway, I expect at least a shred of sympathy from you. At least apologize or offer to buy me dinner in order to atone for sexiling me for the fifth time that week. But don’t greet me in various stages of undress with a plethora of discarded condoms and wet-spots of love juice on my side of the room. And some advanced notice would be appreciated as well. There have been times when I’d step out of the room for ten minutes to take a shower, and I come back to find you and what’s-her-face doing it like it’s done on the Discovery Channel. I was gone for 10 minutes! Who the hell seduces a girl in 10 fucking minutes?!
I swear, it’s about time that you developed those purple pustules on your love-stick. And I hope that you live to regret your wanton sexual indulgences with every cottage-cheese like discharge from your groin. May a genital-wart develop for every time you humiliatingly sexiled me when I had only a towel wrapped around my waist. The gynecologist might call that infection Chlamydia, but I choose to call it Justice.