Me Gusta Desnudar

Dear Reid,

I need your help. I’m in trouble with The Man. You see, I came here to school for one reason. To get naked. I just really like getting naked. I think it all started when I was in eighth grade and liked to watch TV all the time. We had one of those big satellite dishes with about 300 channels, and my parents had locked out all the good ones. But one day they left town for a week and me and my friends sat around and ate cheese dip all the time and some of it got spilled into the control box for the satellite dish and suddenly WHOOM! the Boobs and Butts Bonanza Channel was open for our viewing.

So we viewed it, Reid, and I’ve been all for nakedness ever since. Of course, I had to keep my clothes on for most of high school, and that really bit. Sure, I could sleep in the raw, but that was just enough to keep me alive. Not enough to let me grow in my nudity. I had high hopes about coming to Morris. I had hopes that Morris would be a mecca of naked folks like me, but that just hasn’t happened.

The Man won’t let us go naked here and everyone is so afraid of the Man that I’d like to just go fight the system but it’s too cold to go outside when you’re naked like I am all the time. And what makes it worse is that I can’t go to class naked. This means that I can’t go to class at all Reid. I was supposed to go to College Writing or something like that but I can’t because I can’t go naked and even if I tried all the clothes wearing bastards would just make fun of my relatively puny girth. If you don’t go naked all the time you just don’t understand what cold and exposure can do to a sensitive man like me. So now my English skills are sub par and I can only live my dreams of being buffly naked when I’m alone in my room. I know you like to be naked a lot, Reid, and I need your help.

Let’s Get Nekkid,
Me Gusta Desnudar

Dear Keith,

I know how you feel. It is very important for a person to feel comfortable with their body, and I can see that you obviously have no issues in this area–a sure sign of mental and emotional health. The problem, you see, is not with you. Only a truly healthy, well-adjusted person is comfortable enough with his or her body in order to so enjoy nudity. The problem here is with other people – with rules, with laws, with administration, with the government, with the underlying ideals of imperialism in capitalist society today.

When dealing with issues of this type, one must ask one’s self: “Who am I? How do I fit into the Universe? Am I significant? Is the government oppressing my freedom while it claims to defend it?” Look deep inside of yourself, my dear nudist, and at the same time look so far outside of yourself as to take in the entire picture of the Universe, of space and time and the very fabric of reality. When contemplating things of this nature, we must look at exactly that: Things, and the thingness of things. At what point does the world world? And when the world worlds, do things still thing? Are things things, or are worlds worlds? Are you my brother, or my sister, or my twin? I believe that I am made up of organs, cells, DNA molecules, atoms, subatomic particles. But am I but a speck of nothing on what I think of as a world, which is actually no more than a subatomic particle in the atom which is our solar system, which is a part of the larger molecule of the galaxy, which in turn is but a tiny piece of the DNA that is the Universe?

Is my Universe simply the tiniest part of a much larger being, who in turn is contemplating these very issues, himself just as tiny a nothing speck in comparison to a still larger world? Does this stretch on into infinity, or is life and the Universe finite? We debate cosmological problems such as the age of the Universe and the conflicting age of stars. Is the Universe my dream or am I the dream of some other being? Am I no more than a part of someone else’s cadaver equis? Can the meaning of life be un chien andalou, or is there no meaning for any of this? Should I care? After all, as a nothing speck of nothing on a larger speck of nothing, and one which will live only a nothing amount of time in the infinite (or finite?) life and space and time of the Universe, nothing that I can do in my nothing span of a life can possibly have an effect on the larger scheme of things–which might not actually be the larger scheme of things in the truly larger scheme of things.

So basically, what I’m saying here is: Go naked. Go to class naked, go to work naked, go to bed naked. Nothing matters. Life goes on. Or does it?

Like or Like-Like

Dear Reid,

I have a problem. There’s this guy, you see, and I think he likes me. But, I can’t tell if he just likes me, or if he likes me-likes me. I’ve known him for a while now, and in all this time I haven’t been able to figure out if when we talk he is flirting with me or just talking to me. It’s weird, you know, because he always seems really happy to see me, whether he’s having a crappy day or not, and he’ll compliment me or say something else that’s just really nice like you would expect a guy to who wants to ask you out, but he just never does.

Actually, we have hung out together a few times, and sometimes it felt almost like we were on a date, but I just wasn’t sure whether we were or not, so it’s kind of tough to know how to act. How can I get him to know that, if he does like me, it’s okay to ask me out? I want to send the signals, and I’ve been trying to subtly let him know, but I’m nervous that if I let him know that I like him and he doesn’t like me that it might make the weird little relationship we have get weirder.

Sincerely,
Someone Who’s Confused

I know how you feel. In fact, if there’s one thing I know, it’s what it feels like to be confused about someone in whom you are interested. Now, part of your problem is very simple for me to help you clear up. This guy likes you. I mean, he likes you-likes you. There’s no doubt about that. He wouldn’t act like that around you unless you were a really good friend or Someone he Wants to ask out. It’s a guy thing. So, he likes you, very much so, a lot; don’t fret on that anymore.

The second half of the problem involves a deeply held secret, which I – after much internal debate – have decided to let you in on. Now, guys, don’t come trying to kick my ass for letting this out, because once it’s out in the open, and once everybody knows about it, we’re all going to be a lot better off. This is the secret of life, the universe, and everything: Guys are stupid. I mean, we’re really a bunch of dumb-as-a-rock, boneheaded, imperceptive, thick-skulled, half-witted, moronic, lead-paint-eating, glue-sniffing idiots.

You may think that by twirling your hair or standing with your feet pointed inwards or by flashing him a smile across the room that you are sending him signals, but know this: He isn’t getting it. Judging by how you’ve known this guy for quite some time, and by how he acts around you, and by how you act around him, I’m afraid he’s even more of a dimwit than most – at least as stupid as me.

It may be that the only way you’re going to get through to him is to walk up to him and ask him out yourself. That’s right. At the very least, you’re going to have to go up to him, and say to his face, “Hey, I Like You.” So, now you know the secret, and you never would have gotten that from multiplying six by nine.

Misled by Mathematica

Dear Reid,

I need help with Mathematica. I have struggled through a quarter and a half of Calculus here at UMM, and just can’t seem to get a handle on even the fundamentals of using this computer program. I had Calc in high school, and never had a problem understanding the concepts. Now I spend most of my evenings in the computer lab of MRC trying to make that old Mac integrate even the simplest antiderivative.

On numerous occasions, I have gone across the hall in search of a math tutor, but have been greeted by nothing but hostility from those who I thought were there to help people like me. Tell me, Reid, what is wrong with me that I can’t grasp even the basics of Mathematica, and why won’t the tutors in MRC 1 help me out?

Sincerely,
Misled by Mathematica

I know how you feel. I myself was once cosidered a Calculus prodigy, and based on my inherent brilliance was allowed to skip out of the first two quarters when I arrived at Morris. But in Calc III, Mathematica threw even me for a loop. However, unlike you I was able to figure it out pretty easily within a couple of weeks. I’m afraid that you, my friend, are a hopeless idiot. First of all, everything you need to know is clearly explained in the brilliantly written textbook for the class, which, had you been among the rare few to actually read it, you would have been able to figure out.

However, in this day and age, no college student would ever expect that reading the text for their class would help them in any way. Besides, who has time for that? Secondly, I’m afraid that the room across the hall is not the Math Room. In fact, it has no connection with the math department whatsoever. The sign is, however, rather small and easily missed. I can understand your confusion. Had you looked carefully at the door, you would have realized that MRC Suite 1 is in fact the residence of The University Register, where not a single math tutor works. As I said, I’m afraid your case is hopeless. Oh, by the way, find another stapler.

More TA Fantasies

Dear Reid,

I decided to write to you after reading Horny Anglophile’s letter in the November 21 issue of The University Register. His boldness has given me the courage to admit my obsession and to plead for your help. Like Horny Anglophile, I am an anglophile who is horny and obsessed with my TA. Unlike H.A., I do not desire our Gap-shopping, movie-loving TA; rather, my desire, and therefore my obsession, belong to Gap-boy’s co-worker and fellow TA.

My obsession is such that I do not merely fantasize daily about my TA, but I have also made many sacrifices for her. For example, I study. I sacrifice my valuable Tuesday evening television viewing so that I can be prepared to discuss (and impress) on Wednesday/group day. (Unfortunately, whenever my TA joins my group’s discussion, I become too preoccupied to form a coherent thought, much less to discuss the illuminating function of a psychoanalytic reading of Hamlet..) I have also begun to spend all of my spare time in TMC (in one of those booths behind the plants), waiting to spy an enormous green bookbag bringing my TA in for a bit of studying.

My desire has reached such a state of obsessiveness that I have even sacrificed Willie’s for Budig’s, finding it extremely erotic to know that only a wall separates me from what may be her bedchamber. As you can see, I have a serious problem, and the advice you gave H.A. won’t suffice; I already belong to several student oranizations and can’t afford to travel. I know that you believe that a relationship between a TA and a student is inappropriate, but what happens when fall quarter ends and she is no longer my TA? I know she will still be out of my “league”, but I cannot stop wondering: ‘Was ever a woman in this situation wooed?’ ‘Was ever a woman in this situation won?’ ‘Do I dare?’ and ‘How should I begin?’ I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed. I need your help, Reid!

Sincerely,
J. Richard Prufrock III

I know how you feel. To desire someone that you seemingly have no chance with is a very tormentuous affair. I’ve been in this situation many a time, and in fact am currently suffering through a similar dilemma. Fortunately, due to the delay between your sending of this letter and its time of publication, your problem is easily solved. Fall quarter is over, go for it.

So, enough about you; let’s get back to me. I am in a state of utter confusion. While the object of my infatuation is not a Teaching Assistant, she is someone whom I encounter frequently in one of my classes. Every time I’m sure that I have to move on, that it’s time to look elsewhere, something happens that makes me say, “Well, maybe…” in a wishful tone of voice.

As you know, Constant Reader, while I may come off as an expert in the affairs of the heart (I do have some damn good ideas, don’t I?), and while I do know all the moves (that yawning thing in the movie theater–a winner every time), and while I do have the best portfolio of pick-up lines in seven counties (See that girl over there? She said that you think I’m cute), and while I am blessed dashing good looks (okay, now I’m exaggerating), I lack one simple thing: guts. I absolutely suck at asking the fairer sex out on dates. In my mind I go through the motions a million times, but when I’m actually with that secret someone, it’s small talk all the way. Man, I would like it so much better if it was the ladies who asked out the men… blast society’s ways.

This week, I have a plea to you, Constant Reader. As Valentine’s Day approaches – somehow misconstrued in American society as a day for sweethearts rather than friends – and as those dateless dorks among us (I am included in this grouping) will be home alone, sucking down Surge and flipping past the commercials for FTD and Jerry Maguire, The University Register will be tabling for our annual Lovelines feature. Send Lovelines. Send lots of Lovelines. Send lots of Lovelines to me. (P.S.: this plea has nothing whatsoever to do with the running contest among UR staffers to see who gets the most Lovelines.)