Dear second floor pubic shavers
College life = much lols. I woke up this morning, went to the the bathroom and found this stuck on the mirror:
Here's the text if you don't want to squint:
"Dear second floor pubic shavers,
Bear with me for a second here. I wake up, sleep still heavy in my eyes, my body dragging to the shower needing a chance to be woken up by the gentle, cleansing water. I walk to the bathroom with my soap and shampoo resting in my arm, clutching my towel with my free hand as part of my mindless morning routine. I then head straight to my cubby, grabbing my razor[,] excited to for the chance to shave my legs and regain that fresh, virgin feel of a hairless body. I pick it up, the blue and green handle soft in my hands, and I turn to head to the shower I stop. Immediately I look down, no longer worn by tiredness and isntead brought to morning life by the sight I now see. What is this? Short black hairs coated my razor. Encrusted. You know how sometimes on a warm summer day you pass a dropped piece of food on the sidewalk, and ants coat its surface in a sort of feeding frenzy. You can't really even tell what kind of food it is anymore. Was that a popsicle? A piece of bread? These were the thoughts that raced through my head as I looked in amazement at what should have been my razor. Was this even mine? Those aren't my pubic hairs.
Please don't use my razor anymore. Honestly. I know, I know; the Venus razor provides an amazing shave, and it[']s nice every once in a while to get a chance to experiment with other people's razors. I remember the first time I walked into the Lewis bathroom and saw everyone's razors there, the first thing I thought was, "Wow that must feel nice. I've used my razor for so long, and I kind of like experimenting (this IS college, right?), so I should try everyone else's razor and see which fits me best." I almost even used everyone's razor at once, alternating with each stroke to get a theatre of tingling emotions through my shaved regions. It's almost a Goldilocks story, except instead of bears we have razors and instead of Goldilocks we have some second floor girl with short black pubic hair.
Maybe you weren't even curious about which razor would be best, but instead you simply wanted that deviant attention that comes from doing something taboo. It's like sexting during dinner while your parents are at the table, or maybe even eating meat during Lent. You know you shouldn't, and you know that if your parents knew they would take away your bicycle for a week, but because of this you get a thrill. Maybe you used my razor for this adrenaline burst. Maybe you were hoping that while you were using it I would enter the bathroom, see it missing, and maybe enter the shower to give you a demonstration of how well it works and we would have a super kinky moment. Yumm.
What astounds me most is that you didn't even make an attempt to hid it. The hairs still coated the things, and it wasn't even put back in its case. It was almost as if you were saying, "Try and catch me, I dare you. You'll never match my pubes to this razor." Well you got away this time, but don't think it's too easy. Buy your own blades. Get yourself a razor. Make friends with a boy and use his razor when he's not looking. Wax. Maybe even use your mom's razor when you go home if you're into that deviant business I mentioned earlier. Just don't get all up in my blades with your fur, and we shall be good.
Keep it classy Lewis,
Room XXX (I know, I'm a boy, ewwwww, but I wrote this for someone else from their perspective.)"
Here's the text if you don't want to squint:
"Dear second floor pubic shavers,
Bear with me for a second here. I wake up, sleep still heavy in my eyes, my body dragging to the shower needing a chance to be woken up by the gentle, cleansing water. I walk to the bathroom with my soap and shampoo resting in my arm, clutching my towel with my free hand as part of my mindless morning routine. I then head straight to my cubby, grabbing my razor[,] excited to for the chance to shave my legs and regain that fresh, virgin feel of a hairless body. I pick it up, the blue and green handle soft in my hands, and I turn to head to the shower I stop. Immediately I look down, no longer worn by tiredness and isntead brought to morning life by the sight I now see. What is this? Short black hairs coated my razor. Encrusted. You know how sometimes on a warm summer day you pass a dropped piece of food on the sidewalk, and ants coat its surface in a sort of feeding frenzy. You can't really even tell what kind of food it is anymore. Was that a popsicle? A piece of bread? These were the thoughts that raced through my head as I looked in amazement at what should have been my razor. Was this even mine? Those aren't my pubic hairs.
Please don't use my razor anymore. Honestly. I know, I know; the Venus razor provides an amazing shave, and it[']s nice every once in a while to get a chance to experiment with other people's razors. I remember the first time I walked into the Lewis bathroom and saw everyone's razors there, the first thing I thought was, "Wow that must feel nice. I've used my razor for so long, and I kind of like experimenting (this IS college, right?), so I should try everyone else's razor and see which fits me best." I almost even used everyone's razor at once, alternating with each stroke to get a theatre of tingling emotions through my shaved regions. It's almost a Goldilocks story, except instead of bears we have razors and instead of Goldilocks we have some second floor girl with short black pubic hair.
Maybe you weren't even curious about which razor would be best, but instead you simply wanted that deviant attention that comes from doing something taboo. It's like sexting during dinner while your parents are at the table, or maybe even eating meat during Lent. You know you shouldn't, and you know that if your parents knew they would take away your bicycle for a week, but because of this you get a thrill. Maybe you used my razor for this adrenaline burst. Maybe you were hoping that while you were using it I would enter the bathroom, see it missing, and maybe enter the shower to give you a demonstration of how well it works and we would have a super kinky moment. Yumm.
What astounds me most is that you didn't even make an attempt to hid it. The hairs still coated the things, and it wasn't even put back in its case. It was almost as if you were saying, "Try and catch me, I dare you. You'll never match my pubes to this razor." Well you got away this time, but don't think it's too easy. Buy your own blades. Get yourself a razor. Make friends with a boy and use his razor when he's not looking. Wax. Maybe even use your mom's razor when you go home if you're into that deviant business I mentioned earlier. Just don't get all up in my blades with your fur, and we shall be good.
Keep it classy Lewis,
Room XXX (I know, I'm a boy, ewwwww, but I wrote this for someone else from their perspective.)"