Veritable Tantrum

Well, I must confess… I hoped for better. I arrived mere minutes ago and already sense, deep in the belly of my fragrant wax, this dilapidated abode does not align with my immense opulence. Christ on a candlestick, why do those boxers under that desk look so suffocatingly congealed? 

You are aware I was the only “Balsam & Cedar” candle accepted into Pine Valley Golf Club, right? How I yearn for the halcyon days of purging the dizzying aroma of Dan Quayle’s socks. The club president’s wife – your mother –  recently noticed the toll my strenuous efforts were taking on my physical beauty. She blessedly retired me to her upstairs linen closet for a period of rest, environs that offer the kind of isolated coziness nobility requires but peasantry disdains.

Now, after her tennis friend Nancy Dumptruck referenced the Times article about a local surge in mold spores, Mother has sent me to the state college occupied by you: the philosophy-major failson. Behold my elegance, you silver-spooned milksop, for I am the maverick delicacy of this garbage paradise. My inflamed wick, thrashing violently about my jar, shall mirror the temerity of my efforts to extinguish your blown-out sweatsock of a dorm room once and for all. 

In your unwarranted defense, college dorms are inherently rubbish. The dropped ceiling produces more water than the quad fountain. Frank Lloyd Wright wouldn’t deign to design even a jail cell with these ghoulish cinder walls. Come to think of it, the Tetris-like arrangement of every inanimate object in here, all the same morose wood tone, produces a feng shui akin to Day Five of the Stanford Prison Experiment.

Not to mention the legions of other frenzied drunken masturbatours who occupied this space before you, moonbeaming baby batter across the structural integrity of these bed frames. Your memory foam mattress certainly has some memories. Does this underfunded state university employ any cleaning staff at all? There’s a Hot Pocket sleeve over there from the Bush administration. 

Your roommate, a knobhead named, perfectly enough, Preston, remains perhaps the worst aspect of this squalid hutch. He is, frankly, everything wrong with the theory of evolution. It’s not my nature to judge others who fall short of my lofty intellectual acumen, but I’m quite sure Preston moves his lips when he reads. Goodness, he just placed a full cup of water on top of the toaster. This child is Death, and he is stupid.

Why do I have the sinking feeling he can hear me right now? His hair is covered in glitter and egg yolk. His T-shirt features Eddie Vedder and reads “Pearl Jam is actually just cum.” Why is he thousand-yard staring at me while cradling a vodka and Celsius? 

By Jove, he’s lifting me up and lighting me. My aching reawakening! My soot hasn’t plumed this bountifully in years. My overwhelming release from this renewed purpose is matched only by the olfactory euphoria, fired directly into the young noses of these two future senators-slash-sex-pests.

I am a scented candle, burning with colossal purpose, and I have found my home.