Editors Note: The following story was leaked to The Flipside after The Daily refused to publish it in their coverage of the most recent Marriage Pact, citing it as “too fucked up and postmodern.” Luckily, The Flipside loves stuff that is fucked up and/or postmodern, and as such has chosen to print the story in full.

When I was five, I decided I would one day marry a balloon. Every single birthday thereafter, I chose a new one and slept with it for the following year, until on my next birthday I would pop it and start anew.

And so you can imagine my excitement when, this fall quarter, the Marriage Pact paired me up with the the third ‘2’ from the big ‘2022’ ballon the University put up last Admit Weekend. She was beautiful, all golden and latexy — but, alas, it seemed that the Gods did not want us to be together, for lightning would strike every time we touched. I don’t have medical insurance, so this was a big impediment, as you can probably imagine (sorry, mom: I forgot to pay my premiums because I bought out a PetCo and renovated it to become a sports bar staffed entirely by animals, but then got bored and renovated it back into a PetCo).

Bankrupt and unable to feel my limbs after the repeated lightning strikes, I —  I’ll admit it —grew distant from my lover. And so she began to see someone else: a balloon animal turtle, left behind after the circus passed through town. They became close, and soon married. Years passed; we grew apart.

Then, this past week, a nostalgic dream prompted me to jolly awake and, in a manic state, write my lost love a telegram asking that she take me back. I sent the message via Uber Hot Air Balloon, but my driver was struck down by an eagle and the telegram got lost in the Gulf of Mexico. It stayed there for years, floating atop a patch of seaweed, until yesterday one of Pablo Escobar’s escaped hippos swallowed it up and swam to England, where he gently set it down atop the grave of Winston Churchill for 3 days — we must remember our past, after all — before mailing it back to me.

Years passed, until earlier this morning the telegram finally turned up in my Gmail inbox. In it was a response from my match, co-signed by the balloon turtle and, inexplicably, former U.S. President William Henry Harrison. All three agreed that I had been a poor partner and that we were better off apart. I wept for what felt like days.

Now, many years later, I pass my story on to you in hopes that others might learn from my mistakes. Please, I beg of you — do not follow in my footsteps.

— Marco “Don’t Call Me Marco My Name is Kyle” Vincenzo, Class of 2021

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