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My Dearest Brethren,
If you are reading this, I am dead. Not dead dead, but dead inside. My eyes are glued to an Excel sheet, my ass is glued to a broken swivel chair, my life is glued to the whim of Lee Bok Chu. He’s the non-English-speaking manager of the bottom floor of a small branch of a small mortgage company across the street from the grocery store that I pick up a sub from every lunch break. I’ll return to the dark corner of my cubicle to eat it in silence while browsing Reddit. Lee will come over and yell “MANY FILE FOR YOU SCAN!” while poking me with a stack of overly-generous loans to other underpaid schmucks also working jobs they hate in a perpetual struggle to pay off said loans.
Do not mourn my passing, brothers. Instead, celebrate my life by living yours to the fullest. I bestow unto the following members of our chapter the items I have cherished over the past four and a half years — items that, tragically, have no place in the home of a normal, law-abiding, mortgage-paying citizen.
My short but powerful bong, Peter Danklage, I bequeath unto you, Spencer, you stoned motherfucker. Keep the trap game going strong, and may your entrepreneurial spirit never be crushed by the long dick of the law.
For Bumble, I leave my diverse collection of Hustler magazines, for only you will truly appreciate the classic, old-school feel of paperback smut.
The baby doll under my bed that I taped to my butt for Halloween (I was a babysitter), I leave to Davidson. Give it to your dear sister, little Suzy, and when it comes time for her to go to college, never let her within the doors of our house — if we somehow manage not to be kicked off campus by then.
The fake IDs in my nightstand drawer, I leave to Shnazz. You’ll probably have to sell the one of the blonde chick, unless you keep growing that flow out.
To my boy Blue, I leave my binders of extensive notes and doodles (mostly doodles). May they aid you in the pursuit of knowledge so that you too can finally graduate.
I leave my Brazzers account to Spraker. You’ll get more use out of it than anyone, you fucking virgin. The username is OsamaBinLabia, and the password is Queefs_R_Us. Also, there’s an energy drink-sized tube in the bottom drawer of my desk that will enhance your viewing pleasure, just make sure you rinse it out first.
I’m leaving all my furniture to Struggles: my desk, my dressers, my bed (everything but my mirror – I need that shit to watch myself bone). May the powerful squeaks of my old spring mattress forever echo in the halls of your household, and may it have the strength to support the massive dragons you plan on slaying.
To the three little brothers that I have taken under my wing over the course of my collegiate career, I entrust to each of you the plastic bin in the back of my closet. You must never open it.
For the rest of you, I left a small present in the corner of the POD we keep tailgate supplies in. It’s from that day I ate a whole bag of Quesaritos before storing the tent on the last game of the season, and it is a fine work of art indeed.
It is time for me to go now. The ding of the microwave oven just went off in the kitchen, which means Lee will be back any second now with a plate of egg rolls in one hand and a stack of bitch work in the other. Before I set off into the halogen-lit maze of cubicles that is my future, I want you boys to know this: I fucking love you. Even you, Keef, you ginger bitch.
Forever Yours In The Bond,