Jan 172012
Authors: Morgan Mayo

Every time I’ve been away from home for awhile, I always worry that things won’t be the same the next time I go back. But as I glanced behind me to watch my best friend leap the white fence surrounding “The North Pole” in our local bowling alley after trying to take naughty pics on Santa’s lap, I realized that nothing had changed.

For us, Christmas has always been all about giving back.

It’s traditions like the annual Santa lap dance, and sprint away from security, that keep the notion of “home for the holidays” alive. And every person has their own unique traditions.

My neighbors like to hang red bows from the antlers of the dead deer heads hanging in their living room. My cousin likes to cover the dog in grease and tell me to chase it like a pig at every family reunion. (If at this point you’re wondering why the North didn’t just let us go back in 1860, don’t worry. You’re not alone.)

But perhaps my favorite tradition of all is the tired old dance I do every time I’m home –– with the boy next door.

First let me give you a little background. The boy next door is essentially the high-school smash that never got smushed, the flagpole that never got ridden or the stiffy that never got jiffy.
I used to make out with him backstage during theatre competitions, which ultimately resulted in me having to go on stage with my shirt inside out and his fake brown beard smeared across my face. On prom night, he paid me to pretend to be his date so his grandfather would give him extra money. Later, I threw up in his backyard.

It was love.

And then we graduated, I followed my other lover, Prince William, to Scotland, and our on-and-off “thing” moved online. And that’s where it all went down-hill.

Facebook chat is where relationships go to die. It’s an alternate reality flirtation purgatory.
Once you enter the void, you will be typing about licking each other’s naughty bits for eternity. It will never again happen in real life.

Basically it’s where you can promise to sell your great-grandmother’s anal virginity to your 40-year-old ex-boss who uses pomade on his pubes with absolutely no consequences. It is the number one blue-ball site of the web.

Like I’m sitting there chatting with the boy next door and he’s telling me every part of me that he is going to touch inappropriately and then the next holiday I see him he and stares at me like “Oh my God you exist beyond my computer, and now I have to suck on your big toe like I said I would on Facebook chat.”

Except he doesn’t.

And then the next day he gets online and starts chatting me again about the new leopard-print man thong he’s going to wear for me next time he sees me. The entire time I’m just thinking: Wow. If my fingers were long skinny (hairy) testicles, they would be aching like a motherf*****.
So to all you Facebook flirters out there: You are forewarned about my vicious holiday tradition that could very easily become your own.

And to the Facebook teases of the world: Do not chat about tweaking a person’s nipples unless you can deliver. You are putting that s*** in writing, people.

Someone is going to go to a lawyer one day, and they are going to say your Facebook chats are a contract because it’s in writing. God forbid the day you have to let the butt ugly girl/guy you copy off of in Stats see you naked because you talked about it on Facebook chat.

I have one Facebook blue-ball that I have literally been chatting with for like three years. This guy has seen my boobs in real life once, and now we will absolutely never hook up, ever. Because Facebook is evil. End of rant.

But here’s to traditions! Whether it’s driving around town with your best girls and hollering at the boys with the biggest rims or getting rejected bi-annually by an old flame, they are the practices that keep us grounded. Our traditions keep us rooted in the past and looking forward to the future.
And yeah, I could delete boy-next-door and save myself a lot of frustration. But it’s kind of nice that some things never have to change.

Awkward times are ahead my friends. But until we meet again…


Morgan Mayo is a junior natural resources major. Her column appears Wednesdays in the Collegian. She can be reached at letters@collegian.com.

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