The following content is purely satirical and entirely fictional.
I met the love of my life last week. We bumped into each other getting beer and then proceeded to spend the entire night talking, dancing, laughing. She was beautiful. At least I think she was. It was really dark.
But I never learned her name. I mean, I asked. But I couldn’t really hear because it was loud, so I asked again. But then I couldn’t tell how it was pronounced, and I was too embarrassed to ask again. Still, I know that she is the one.
She left before we could exchange numbers. Her friends were going home, or she had an early class or something, I don’t really know. So I did the only thing I could think of. I posted a Tiger Confession.
“If you’re the girl I met last night, I think we really hit it off. I hope you felt the same way.”
Despite my informative and specific message, I received no response. Not even a single reaction to the post.
Luckily, I noticed something. There has been a Whitman jacket hanging on a hook by the eating club door all week. It wasn’t there last week, and it hasn’t moved since. She mentioned that she was sad about the construction on the Whitman lawn, I recall. She’s probably in Whitman (or maybe she’s just annoyed like everyone else is). But I’m sure the jacket belongs to her.
So, I’ll spend the next week going door to door in search of the one girl in this university who will fit into this medium Whitman jacket.
Wait! There’s a receipt in the pocket. It belongs to some dude named James. Never mind.
Liana Slomka is a head humor editor. If you are her long lost love, please reach out. She’s waiting for you.