“They used to make my teachers swoon,” said CMC sophomore Miles Businessworth. “They were gentle and firm. My English teacher wrote home about them. She said they were eagle eyries amidst the stars, or fine pink garlands atop dunes of crystalline sand. Now I am ruins. Old and grey. Ashes and dust. I shall be dead soon enough.”
Any onlooker at Miles’s Mounds could, in fact, agree with this assessment. By the time he got to college, his once bewitching nipples had wilted like a desert rose. His milkshake, that once brought boys to the yard, is now sour and slushy. “They’re like wet sacks of gravel.”
His struggle is something many students experience after starting college. The grandiose ambition. Grand delusions of constancy. “Back in high school, I was the big fish. Life was easier.” Now, his nips are just two slices of ordinary dining hall pepperoni, greasy and pallid in autumn’s gloom.
“What once were daubes of royal purple, midtones of hydrangea, and bright as a fragrant breeze, are now just… my nipples,” he cried. “Everyone used to love me in high school. Even the district superintendent doted on my pink playthings.”
His fall from grace has been tragic.
“The Housing Director on Grindr doesn’t even notice me. Josh, I’ll do anything! I need thee, Josh!”
The nipples waste away like carrion. Just food for the vultures (upperclassmen). “Yesterday, a junior in Topology barely drooled at me,” said Miles. “I used to be such a bright, perky kid. I was gifted—like, actually gifted. Now I’m nothing. Just really stupids and alones.”
Pity him. Miles can be found crying under the Pitzer clock tower. His once-proud nipples hang limp and unkempt. Please send flowers or a cold breeze his way, so that some glory might stand tall again.