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Letter From The Pledge Trainer

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You are fucked. In fact, you are so fucked. Over the past 3 months I have handcrafted a world that rains blood and hails shit. I am the architect of your nightmare. I am the pledge trainer.

For “8 weeks” you will learn what it’s like to have a 21-year-old majoring in Kentucky Deluxe, recreational drug-use, and sociopathic tendencies micromanage your life. I will protect you from overzealous actives, but no one will protect you from me.

My testosterone levels are dangerously high. My range of emotion varies from “slightly agitated” to “raging homicidal maniac.” I am not your everyday active sitting on the patio jamming Panic. Pantera’s “Vulgar Display of Power” is the only album on my iPod. I do three sets of one in the gym, and I start every workout with power cleans. If my nose starts mysteriously bleeding, I just let it run its course. I ordered Rosetta Stone and learned Latin in order to diversify my hazing techniques. I have unprotected sex with known sluts and sleep in cave-like conditions just to boost my immune system. I refuse to trim my bush despite my long time girlfriend’s frequent requests. When I tell you that you’re the worst pledge class of all time, I mean it. When I tell you that you’re not going to be going home for Christmas break, I’m not kidding.

It will all be over soon. That’s a lie. But even if it was over soon, it would still feel like an eternity. There is no escape. Embrace the pain. You are mine.

Fuck you,

James Glasscock, PT

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