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Opinion: Stop Touching My Butt, I Am Not A Piece Of Meat

Spartans, I’m tired. I don’t mean that I’m tired of standing in this demeaning pose where I endlessly point to my junk for your amusement. I’m the Sparty statue on the corner of Red Cedar and Kalamazoo, and I’m tired of being treated like an object.

I don’t mean mean I’m tired of watching you on bikes zoom past me into traffic without a fear in the world. I don’t even mean that I’m tired of being shat on by birds every Tuesday morning, and being helpless to do anything about that (thanks for helping clean me off, nobody).

Freshmen, you don’t have to hang off my arms like I’m your 10 foot tall boyfriend anymore. I didn’t spend thirteen years standing on a corner just so you can play make believe for your Instagram. You and your friends might be laughing, but I’m not. You’ll forget about me for the next four years until you graduate, just to take the same photos again.

You know what’s great about standing still? Nothing. The most interesting thing about my life is spending a week a year in fear that some U of M frat star is going to steal my head or paint me blue. I’m confused, scared, and still, but you never notice because you’re too busy grabbing my ass. Fucking hilarious.

If you’re one of the few good ones out there, you can help by reading to me. One time a second grader on a field trip read me the first half of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, but stopped after running out of time. I never found out what happened to him. Did his gluttony finally catch up to him and forced him to finally use his IM pass? Did he wake and discover it was a dream, and that he was a statue just like me? I get really bored here, and I really want to know.

Otherwise, if you have to pose with me please keep it tasteful. You don’t have to climb on me like I’m the colossal father you always wanted. An arm’s length will do (mine, not yours).

Listen to Talk of Shame, a podcast about being young & dumb. Hosted by 2 drunk girls from The Black Sheep corporate, Mackenzie Harding & Andrea Jablonski. One can’t find her tampon, the other one’s laundry is probably on fire.

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