College
by Justin Gawel on August 22, 2013

You’ve checked into the dorm complex and started taking everything out of the car. The entire time you’re unloading you’re trying your best not to shart uncontrollably, sustain an erection for no apparent reason, or do anything that could spawn an inescapable nickname. With the discipline and focus of Japanese kid with abusively strict parents, you’ll concentrate on avoiding all eye contact and unloading as quickly as possible. Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t start college with the nickname “The Poophole Trickler,” “Doody Bandit,” or “Sweatpants Boner”.

With everything in the room you’re ready to take that trip to the grocery store, have that obligatory Red Lobster lunch, and then give that necessary hug or two before saying goodbye. It’s wishful thinking that they’d leave you to your own devices now, but you’re just dream weaving. You better settle in, buddy, because there aren’t enough biscuits in all of Cheddar Bay to get your parents to leave without trying to micromanage every bit your living space.

Given, your upbringing probably wasn’t all smiles and puppy dog breath. However, despite you being eighteen, your parents will still see you as a child incapable of making an informed decision about which drawer your socks should go in. In their eyes, if it weren’t for them you’d be living under a pinball machine in a dirty bar, living off floor scraps, sucking moisture out of a gin-soaked rag, and dancing for nickels every night. 

Inevitably, safety will come up. Of course they’ve heard some story about a friend-of-a-friend’s nephew whose assailant burrowed through two feet of drywall so he could take his computer, fondle him in his sleep, and steal his identity to buy a beautiful timeshare on Martha’s Vineyard. Sure, you can refresh their memory that you’re here to go to school and not rob drug dealers, but they’ll still have skewed the odds in their mind to it being a fifty-fifty chance that you’re murdered or kidnapped before the semester’s over. In the end, talk is cheap; they’ll settle on complaining and giving you a rape whistle or a two-minute tutorial on punching in lieu of something awesome like nunchucks or a broadsword.

It would be an early Christmas/Winter Solstice/Jewish Christmas miracle if your parents could contain their meddling to your slightly-larger-than-a-coffin room.  Unfortunately, much like a herd of sheep or herd of mental patients, they’ll wander if you don’t pay attention. You need to be vigilant; one moment you’re slapping together an IKEA futon, blissfully ignorant to how many stains will accumulate on that in the next ten months, and the next second you’re looking up to find your RA in your doorway, chuckling like a moron as your mom giggles through a story about your persistent night terrors and relentless rashes. You’re on the verge of a Russell Crowe-esque outburst, but you show restraint. This isn’t the place for a rantrum; that’ll only result in another embarrassing story for your parents to tell in the future.

Much like any nightmare, it will eventually end and your parents will head back home. Soon you’ll strategically place condoms around the room, fantasizing about yourself being ravished by a coed who just can’t wait for you to retrieve one from your desk drawer because she aching to get it right here on the dirty rug made of old rags in front of the microwave. Mark my words — it won’t be long before you start hiding, well, repurposed socks around the room because you never know when “inspiration” will strike. Yeah, freshman year isn’t quite the sopping wet anonymous orgy fuck-stravaganza all-you-can-eat-moist-pussy buffet the movies make it out to be.

Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible most Thursdays and some Tuesdays usually. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.

[Move in image via ShutterStock]