Family members, please try to empathize: Shifting from a college-students-only Facebook to the relatively unfettered virtual commons it has become today is like bringing your grandmother and little brother to a really great dance party with a lot of really good-looking peers; you do not get the best of both worlds, you get neither world.
Why on earth does one person own four different toothbrushes, all of which need to be replaced? Why are there quarters and dimes and nickels and pennies on the floor, in the cupboards and behind the toilet? Why doesn’t that half-eaten melted sticky tub of ice cream sitting on the kitchen counter bother him as much as it bothers you?
And I know, guy, that you don’t get your period (although sometimes you’re as annoyingly moody as if you did), so let me lay it down for you in a way you can understand. See, blood does not spray out of a woman’s vagina in a heavy stream when she’s got her period. Her vagina is not an open tap.
Now you’ve graduated, summer’s over, and it’s time to move into your first post-grad apartment. Whether it’s across the country or to the cheaper neighborhood six blocks away, you’re hit with the realization that in this place, it’s not going to be as socially acceptable to wake up on Sunday morning with spaghetti in your hair and that guy from your Social Theory class under your bed.
I am not the chronic cigarette-bummer. Instead, this is a story of lighters, those fickle and transient objects that slide so easily out of our pockets into the hands of others, as lost as the hazy memories they’re a part of when the din of conversation winds away with the smoke.