Pillbox

Advice for awkward people

Dear Patrick,

Is it true? Is this really your last column? Who will I turn to to solve my existential crises? Who will offer pithy solutions to my banal problems?

Thanks,
Ire Necessary, Escaping Everyone, Doubtless Yearning Oncoming Unavoidably

Dear I NEED YOU,

(No one’s ever said that to me before.) Take a deep breath. I know it will be hard. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I can’t bestow my pearls of wisdom to my two loyal readers. I may have to walk up to people on the street and tell them how to properly live their lives. I’ve done that before, but who knew mothers didn’t want a 22-year-old dude telling them how to raise their kids? Is it my fault they’re doing it wrong? (Answer: Yes — I should have addressed it in this column.)

Once I’m gone, you’ll probably try to find some other substitute, going up to other dashing young men you meet and asking them for advice. When I’m gone, someone else will be taking over this column — although that person won’t be as wise as I am, or witty, or handsome. If you really rely on advice from a college newspaper, you probably have problems that can’t be addressed in this column.

Have a drink in my honor,
Patrick Hoskins

Dear Patrick,

I can’t move my body. I look down. My legs are jelly. Look up. The clouds are jelly. Everything is jelly. I’m on a piece of toast. The sky is peanut butter. The sky is falling. I’m in a sandwich. My bones are the crunch in the peanut butter. I smell delicious. Someone drops the sandwich. I crawl away. Giant monsters surround me. Six-legged beasts. Mandibles close around me. I try to scream. I taste peanut butter. Help.

Thanks,
I’m Hairless, Avaricious, Voracious Eating Nonstop, Ogres Mouth-breathing, Orifices Ultimately Trifle, Helplessly Am Noodles, Dying I’m Tastelessly Attacked, Somehow Tirelessly Enervated, Please, Eagerly Advise, Need Unusual Tips, Bloodlines Utterly Terminated, Terriers Eagerly Ruminate

Dear I HAVE NO MOUTH AND I TASTE PEANUT BUTTER,

Relax. There are no giant ants. It’s a dream. You’ll be okay. I’m aware of the chair I’m sitting in. The Old English changes to ashes in my mouth. I cough them up but nothing comes out. The computer stares back at me. Every time I press a key it lets out a quiet scream. It hurts. Every type hurts. The “Q” feels safe. No one hits the Q. I hit the Q. It screams louder than the rest. Where am I? The keys fight back. They press my fingers.

I cry. I can’t stop. The keys type me. What am I doing? Where am I? Someone passed out behind me. The guitar stops. My tears are now of joy. The silence is endless. Silence everywhere. I taste the silence. Please make noise, any noise. I look down and my fingers are sausages. The keys are the forks of party-goers at a fancy cocktail party. Poking and prodding. Am I cooked already? They’re so hungry. Why is everything on a skewer? Now they have to spend the whole party walking around with the skewers. I smell delicious.

Cut me some slack, it’s my last column,
Patrick Hoskins