Brian Lecuyer

An open letter to all those who went somewhere warm and pleasant over spring break:

Dear person whom I want to maim,

To begin with, I just want to make it clear that I do not hate you. I don’t even hate the fact that you had a wonderful spring break in Mexico or Florida or Texas or wherever all you scums-of-the-earth go. What I hate is that you have to come back here, still wearing your sunglasses and colorful print shirts and looking like ugly Miami Vice extras to tell the entire world about your adventures on the beach.

I hate how the first thing out of your mouths is “you’ll never believe what an awesome time I had” and how the second thing out of your mouth is “you’ll never believe how awesome the weather was.” I hate having to smile as you tell stories of youthful debauchery and excess. I hate having to mumble “sounds fun,” 60 times because you are too self-absorbed in your own story to realize that no one else around you gives a fiddler’s fart about your vacation.

I also can’t stand how you trot out the pictures. Countless pictures of you surrounded by countless other gorgeous college students on a spectacular beach with what seems like endless miles of sand and crystal blue water in the background. Pictures that have you standing front and center with your arms around a member of the opposite sex and come with you saying such things as, “I don’t remember her name but wow! You don’t want to what happened!”

But more than anything else, I hate that you, a person inferior to me, somehow scrounged up the money and got to have the time of your life. While I and countless other college students work hard at backbreaking labor but barely have enough money for food, you, being a spoiled little brat, simply called mommy and daddy and said, “I’m going to Cancun, please send money.” And of course they did.

Which is why they should be maimed as well.

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