A Letter to the Stoners in My Building

Dear Van Meter Stoners,

I know we live in Central, but the smell of weed that's always wafting from your room is blatantly obvious. Two words for you: Fa-breeze. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no square, but if I wanted my room to smell like day-old bong water, I would have lived in my ex-boyfriend's crappy four door sedan. He was a drug dealer, by the way.

I guess you could say my problem isn’t with the smoking, it’s with the lack of discretion. A towel under the door or a little fan action goes a long way. It’s like you guys are asking to get busted. From the Pioneer Pizza delivery guy who’s outside at 2 a.m., to the stench of bud you can smell from a mile away, your presence hardly goes unnoticed.

Here’s a little tip: When you're lying to your RA about fishbowling your room, invest in some eyedrops. Those bloodshot peepers are a dead giveaway - there’s a Visine for that. I get second-hand embarrassment from watching you interact with authority figures while you’re stoned out of your mind. When they come knocking on my door asking who is smoking, I have to be honest. Your constant denial is making me look bad.

To be honest, it’s very annoying when I’m trying to study and all I can hear is the sound of you and your roommate clearing four-foot bong rips. I like Sublime as much as the next guy, but when it’s playing on repeat all day it gets old pretty quickly.

All I’m asking for is a little compromise. Next time, just try and keep your smoking sesh on the DL. Either that, or invite me.

High regards,

Izzy