This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Syracuse chapter.
Her name is SUzie.
She drives me crazy.
I once saw her, wearing skin-tight leggings, walk into a telephone pole while BBMing her way through campus.
Never have I been so turned on by such an atrocious display of balance. Perhaps the leggings caused her ineptitude in the art of equilibrium. But I dare not speak lowly of them, for they allow me to be a part of her life, including the tattoo on her left buttock that strains the tautness of her pants.
With SUzie, there are no secrets.
It is winter, that long, dreaded season. I know that underneath your bulky North Face Jacket are yet more layers of North Face. A fleece. A T-shirt. Possibly leggings? I do not know, for I am unfamiliar with brand names. I only know that you know the brands, those three brands that drive me insane: Blackberry. North Face. Uggz. I would imprint them on my body were they not etched into my brain, keeping me up at night as I think of you, bundled up beyond recognition in the Syracuse cold.
Oh, Suzie. Why, as you become dangerously close to that phone pole while texting on your Blackberry, do you not turn to look at me? I desperately wish to look into your eyes, to chance a meeting so that I might cry, “Watch out for the pole!”
But alas, I am unable. For I am stunned by your beauty, the stretching of your charcoal leggings, the salt stains on your Uggz as you trudge toward your destiny, a large, erect wooden pole. And even though, as your nose collides with that pole, you hear explosive laughter behind you emitting from my mouth, you need to know: I am laughing with you.
With you, as you glance around, ascertaining whether or not someone has witnessed your misfortune. With you, as you try to play it off like the red on your face is from the bitter cold and not from sheer embarrassment. With you, as you walk onward, continuing toward yet another telephone pole while you tap away on your Blackberry.
Come to think of it, I’m laughing at you.