Over-texted in Collegetown
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One night sophomore year I went to a house party, drank a few too many Genesee Lights, chugged olive oil on a dare, ate a dog biscuit (though, regrettably, not on a dare) and, to my soon-to-be-former fling (we’ll call her Julie), sent out a text message so humiliating that to this day my bludgeoned self-esteem is still recovering. That message, it pains me to recount, read the following and the following only:
“Poop.”
During the immediate aftermath of “poop,” I spent my time in an ascetic state of reflection: trapping myself in the library, eating my meals alone, racking my brain for some clues into my psyche that night.