Dear sweatpant enthusiasts and dress code breakers,
I know you hate me—I’m aware
If I’m being honest, I don’t care.
I’m not rare,
You can smell me in the air.
I’m here, I’m there
I’m everywhere.
I enjoy watching kids hold their noses.
You think I’m gross and I don’t blame you.
I smell like rotten eggs, socks, or maybe a smelly shoe.
I bombard students when they walk into the Commons
Their noses are attacked with smells of something rotten—
It’s hilarious.
Westridge has grown on me—
I like the space.
I’m as happy as I can be during this winter drear:
I have no plan of leaving—
So you’re stuck with me for yet another year.
Your dearest friend,
The Westridge Smell
