Stephen Fee's Rant

Wait, did you hear it? The sound of me vomiting?

Probably not. You two were making out so loudly in the dining hall that I could hardly hear myself think, never mind puke.

My blockmates and I tried our hardest to enjoy our dinner, but it was impossible. You two were like a train wreck—awful, but we felt compelled to watch. At one point, one of you knelt on the floor with your fingers in the other’s mouth.

And then you giggled, like it’s hilarious that other people have to watch you suck the crumbs of yesterday’s lunch from each other’s fingernails.

And maybe in some places, at some times, that would’ve been okay. But you were not drunk out of your minds at the Quincy Grille, and you were not in one of the middle scenes in “Independence Day”—after everyone decides the world is about to end but before Will Smith saves the day.

You were in the dining hall. Children eat there, for Christ’s sake. And you two carried on to the point where I hope, later in the evening, you both attended a free clinic. Because nobody wants whatever disease is making you think that everyone should have to witness your oral coitus. Please, even I had to have a cigarette when you two were done, and I do not know which end of the cigarette you’re supposed to smoke.

Take this as a warning. Next time you’ll hear me, because I’ll be puking on your laps.