Look, don’t get me wrong; my sock drawer has been emptied for weeks and every grocery store within a five-mile radius is out of blueberry jelly.
But yanking the ol’ hog in class just isn’t the same these days. There’s no sense of thrill when everyone is thousands of miles apart and nobody else is wearing pants either.
I don’t even have to cover myself with the arm desk and risk getting gum up my urethra. Who am I supposed to show off for, my Webkinz? It’s no fun to cuff the carrot if there’s no chance of your hot TA catching you and bringing the whole lecture hall’s attention to your teeny weeny peeny.
Zoom just doesn’t do it for me. All of my classmates look ugly in lumpy sweatshirts and the professor can’t even see my hand moving in a subtle up-down motion behind my bag. It’s sort of difficult to sauce the taco when everybody looks bored to death. If I wanted to jack off to pixelated faces twisted in agony, I would just browse through my stash of photos from Abu Ghraib.
Honestly, I miss third grade, when I would get caught fondling myself with scented crayons and get sent home from school in shame.
Now I can just put myself in a breakout room and paddle the pink canoe all I want with no risk of repercussions.
Where’s the fun in that? Just to get a thrill, I’ve been reduced to yelling for my grandma and then burping the worm as fast as I can as she comes up the stairs. My History of Genocide class is the only exception; the professor makes us keep our microphones on, so at least a few people must hear my breathy shrieks and wonder whether I’m shaking hands with the milkman.
Lately I’ve tried to start paying more attention and participating intellectually in online class, but sometimes you just got to scratch Yoda behind the ears, ya know?
