“Evil comes from a failure to think.”
My advice to all those who will one day be seniors at this great university: hear these words I speak and take great care to heed the message they proclaim, for to do otherwise would be the gravest of oversights.
You must go to Nashville during fall break. If you choose to do otherwise, you will miss out on the experience of a lifetime. When in Nashville, you will spend multiple days parading gaily through spirited city streets; dancing your way in and out of bars, nightclubs and concerts; and a week-long stay in Valhalla, abridged only by the human body’s regrettable need for sleep.
But wait, there’s more!
You will also have the privilege of both receiving and giving out overly-enthused hugs to semi-distant acquaintances exclaiming “Oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you, girly!” or dropping a cool “What up bro — you chillin’, or what?” upon crossing paths with the quiet, backward-hat-wearing guy in the corner of your economics class who now finds himself utterly plastered and brimming with overt masculine confidence.
A lot of you are probably thinking: what if I don’t want to visit Nashville? This is not an option. For one, choosing to partake in something that deviates from the will of the majority is to commit the sin of pride, because who are you to differentiate yourself from the mass of humanity that dictates the direction of the social tide and swallows up all those who try to swim against it?
But then you might say: I can’t afford to spend hundreds — maybe even thousands – on a trip to Nashville, and everything this trip would entail — flights, hotels, food, alcohol, concerts, more alcohol, cover fees, more alcohol (because to spend fall break in Nashville and not be actively drinking for at least half that time would be ______).
Here’s what I have to say: if you can’t pay, either smooth talk your parents into subsidizing the trip, especially if they reside in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, vacation regularly thanks to dad’s cushy accounting job, and would never deny their precious child the requisite funds to live life to the fullest. Or, make sure to land a summer finance internship that pays well, ignoring the side effects that come with it — mainly, that day-to-day life will feel like a painstaking chore.
Still not convinced? Let me put it this way: you only have two options, buckaroo. One: go to Nashville. Two: spend fall break utterly alone, clenching your fists in helpless fury whilst your soul cries out for the nourishment that a drunken, dazed, pleasure-filled excursion to Nashville would’ve surely provided. Don’t look so despairing — after all, Nashville is fun! And if you find yourself inclined to think that “fun!” doesn’t sit atop the pyramid of human flourishing, then you, my dear friend, are an idiot.
*queue smooth sax solo, let it play for ten to twelve minutes, then continue reading*
Welcome back. At this point, you might be thinking that I — this wretched author — am employing the most facetious form of humor: sarcasm. To that, I echo the words of a theologically-inclined former gangster named Jules: “Correct-a-Mundo!” I have one goal in utilizing this devilish sarcasm of mine: to seize the throne of righteousness and place all of you innocent Nashville-goers beneath me and my perpetually virtuous disposition.
There is no denying the wickedness of this act. In fact, I wish nothing else than for the whole of the Nashville cohort to mobilize in wrathful defiance of both this letter and its God-forsaken author. I foresee the masses parading about in collective fury, decrying my once-good name, calling for my immediate censorship and chanting in hypnotic unison: “Long live Nashville! Long live Nashville! Long live Nashville!”
Then, as you all march me to the scaffold, carry out my execution-via-guillotine with impeccable precision and mount my now-severed head atop a spike — calling to mind those dauntless Parisian revolutionaries from two centuries prior — all I ask is that you ponder the following:
Did you go to Nashville because you truly wanted to be there, or did you go to Nashville because spending fall break in the Music City is “just what people do?” This question isn’t meant to be rhetorical; answer it however you please. That said, if something other than your own irrevocable freedom of choice led you to Nashville this past week, I suggest that you…
…well, who am I to suggest anything? All I can do is refer you back to the very beginning of this letter — make of that what you wish.
With shy vengeance and docile anger,
T.W.
Jackson is an aspiring philosopher and nomadic free-spirit. He is currently wandering through an alpine meadow somewhere in Kashmir, pondering the meaning of life. If you would like to contact him, please send a carrier pigeon with a hand-written note, addressed to "The Abyss." He won't respond. (Editor's Note: you can contact Jackson at jlang2@nd.edu)
