I can’t keep it a secret any longer. I know the truth and it has to come out. This living nightmare that I have found myself trapped inside of must be shared with the world. Please if you have had a similar experience I need to find you. If you are out there we must collaborate, adapt, and share any and all information about “it” so that we can find a way to fight and overcome this monster, and maybe more importantly, so that we can know we are not alone in our suffering. Due to the nature of my story I unfortunately have been forced to collaborate with the weirdos, stoners, and humanities majors that run this publication. They don’t believe me.
None of them have called me crazy, yet, but something makes me question my trust in my affiliate at The Water Tower. It was their tone after I first revealed the truth that made me question things. “That’s crazy man, but like yeah we can publish whatever we want”, they said to me between absent minded bong rips, “Just like come to a meeting sometime”. Just the same as everyone else who “thinks I’m kidding”, or says “I’m just paranoid” or that “I need a psychiatric evaluation”. The few who know are out there. Those who have been hissed at for owning black air force ones. Shamed for the Lake Winnipesaukee hoodie they’ve had since 10th grade. Mocked for the stained moccasins that they swear are never worn outside of Millis. So here it goes.
It started as I rose off of my friend’s couch on Sunday, October 30th; arguably one of the scariest Sundays of the year. I stumbled towards the door and began to lurch down Pearl street, just wanting to make it to KKD’s before I assessed my situation. Pieces of my once immaculate “Sexy Waluigi” costume fell away, unnoticed and hid themselves on the edges of the sidewalk. Looking at my phone I realized it was already 2 pm. The rest of my sexy Mario gang had gone off to attend to their responsibilities. Working, studying or exercising, they were surely in new outfits that matched the circumstances, but I was alone. Exposed without my inverted L hat, squiggly mustache, and pointy ears no one could tell how silly and post-ironic my fit was. My eyes pleaded with every stranger; trying to tell them that I wasn’t just a hairy man in half unbuttoned overalls that daintily covered a chest bound by purple fishnets. NO! I WAS SEXY WALUIGI FOR GOD’S SAKE AND IT’S NOT MY FAULT YOU CAN’T SEE THAT! But the strangers’ eyes didn’t understand my pain.
So I fled. Left onto South Willard. Right down Buell and another left onto South Union. But then a camera flash froze me in my tracks. Perched in an oak on the corner it caught me. Petrified, I looked deep into its golden eyes. It was a small creature, gnome-like with gray skin and pointed ears. It couldn’t have been more than 3 feet tall, but no undoubtedly less than 2. In a seeming attempt to blend in as a normal college student it wore a little trench coat and bowler hat.
Grinning wide and bearing its pointed teeth it snickered, “You’re caught for my pages. A flick for the ages. So next time don’t look like a wreck, and you’ll pass the Cynic’s fit check!”
He leapt off the branch and scampered off. It was all over. I’d been found out. My insides now my outsides cause everyone knew that I wasn’t a hot, and super silly, college student but just a wreck, a mess, a sloppy sack of bones! I can never go out with a bad fit again. He might be watching, knowing, cynicizing. It would know my Limp Bizkit t-shirts weren’t something I stumbled upon “at a thrift shop in Boston”, and were actually the ones I bought in 10th grade after my parents got divorced. That my ugly, chunky loafers are the ones I still hold on to cause I wore them to my 8th grade dance. That I didn’t cut my jorts, but my mom did and I think she did a great job. I’m ruined, it will never be the same.