This week, the Voice received an anonymous letter, apparently hand delivered. In the interest of avoiding angering the author further, we have elected to publish a copy of this letter below.
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Dear readers of the Georgetown Voice,
It was about time that I wrote to you. I gave The Hoya six months to answer my letters and they have failed to do so.
Last fall, I was The Hoya’s bread and butter. You’d think they’d remember their cover boy from their first fall issue, or perhaps want to publish something other than weekly COVID-19 updates and reprints of hot takes from the ’70s. Instead, they failed to grasp the enormity of my emotions, my enduring commitment to expression via egging. Their September reportage made my presence in the Georgetown neighborhood appear to be nothing more than a stint. And that is unacceptable.
So now, I’ve decided it’s time to diversify my audience. And I want you to know something, dear readers: This time, I will not be ignored.
I have spent the past six months preparing for this moment, stockpiling an arsenal of fertile hens. I’ve been hibernating—some would call it my Reputation era—and I’ve asked myself the tough question: Why do I egg?
Well, because there is no other way.
I never meant to get violent—truly, I did not. I feel immense remorse for the blood I have drawn and the shirts I have ruined. But they are mere sacrifices on the quest for my greater good. I know no other way to communicate my sorrow, fury, and grandiose vexation after being rejected from the esteemed Georgetown University.
Before my rejection, I entirely bought into the fiction of Georgetown meritocracy. I was a mere lamb being led to slaughter, just like all of you. But now, my eyes have been opened, and I have seen through Georgetown’s gothic stonework veneer. I am as qualified as any of you Georgetown students and should have gotten in—I served my time in Model UN, I founded an unnecessary club at my high school, and my father was indeed a member of the Class of ’92. I did my waiting. Four years of it, in Mock Trial. And, as anyone can see, the only logical response is through the hurling of eggs towards the corporeal forms of those who have been luckier.
I need to let my emotions out somehow, and my daily triathlons along the Potomac just aren’t cutting it. I’ve discovered that there is no greater sense of satisfaction than sending the Georgetown Cupcake line fleeing in terror at an incoming egg missile. Nothing quite compares to the joyous crack of a bird embryo against the windows of Foxtrot or Clyde’s. If I can’t enjoy the aesthetics of a Georgetown lifestyle, neither can anyone else.
I know that GW’s city campus is objectively better than the rat infested mountain that Georgetown sits on, but I can’t let it go. This is worse than my worst breakup. Georgetown is constantly on my mind.
John Carroll glares down at me with disgust. The doors of the Joseph Mark Lauinger Memorial Library will forever be shut to me. Georgetown Missed Connections refuses to publish my hourly submissions. Leo O’Donovan’s will never open their ridiculously heavy doors. Every day, Georgetown finds a new way to tell me that I am not wanted and never will be.
I’ve come to realize that there is only one thing that will make me feel better: covering Georgetown in egg. I will not stop until the cobblestone pathways run yellow with the yolks of my eggs and the tears of my victims.
By the time I am through with this neighborhood, it will be a vegan’s worst nightmare. I want people to feel my pain, to know what it is to feel as fragile as an eggshell and as underdeveloped as a yolk. I want people to know how easy it is to break, to be shattered by the institution they so naïvely call home.
So, Georgetown affiliates: Welcome me, or you shall continue to fear me. Every time you leave your homes, you will do so with the haunting knowledge that I am watching you, waiting for you, poised to strike at any moment. I have submitted my transfer application, and I hope to hear back well before June 1st. You do not want to see what I can do with the likes of RAT SHIT.
Note: The Voice does not condone violence or salmonella.
