The Pesky Kid Who Becomes Your Greek Life Nemesis

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Nice Move

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The girl getting no attention at the bar and the guy hitting on her friends. Body dysmorphic gym rats and mirrors. You and this irritating douchenozzle.

Some things were just destined to clash, and, ever since you rushed freshman year, this one specific dick wagon hitched himself to another fraternity and has been a perpetual thorn in your side. Yes, you’ve never actually exchanged more than two words with one another, but this is a deep, inherent loathing that can only come through years of infuriating actions.

At first glance, this bozo doesn’t seem like much of a threat. You sized him up before that first intramural game and expect to bully this stork-legged goober around and stuff him in a locker for the next four to five years. But then, the whistle blows and he’s inexplicably matching you point for point in hoops or finding his way across home plate in softball.

Still, you dismiss him as a flaming bag of garbage due to his style of banking in every shot or putting himself on base by barely squeaking the ball out of the infield. Even though you heard he was all-county in high school and mimics much of your skill set, you’ve convinced yourself that “this kid’s not even that good” and is “the luckiest asshole alive.” You simply refuse to call this dingus by name — mainly because you never bothered to learn it. Instead you refer to him by number or some demeaning physical attribute. “I got Goggles over here” or “I’m on Highlights.”

Yet, this rec spec wearing jackoff or blonde streak hair having jabroni — who you believe has one of the most recognizable and punchable faces on campus — should be paying rent with how much real estate he’s occupying in your brain. He’s all up in your kitchen and making a scrappy, fundamental sandwich.

His vexing ways then start to combat you off the IM fields as well. Suddenly, he’s hanging around and crushing the same sorority ass as you. You got the invite to Kappa semi-formal — he’s two tables over. You’re on the bus to Alpha Xi’s grab-a-date — he’s firmly planted in the seat behind you. You’re running in Theta’s philanthropic 5k — he’s bumping shoulders matching stride for stride. Any honey that has a history with this goon immediately becomes undesirable in your eyes. “You fucked Goggles?”

This boner is your direct competition. He’s the Magic to your Bird. The Hamilton to your Burr. And by that, I mean you hope he gets AIDS or challenges you to a duel so you can legally shoot him dead and leave him in a pool of his own blood. But despite the tension and animosity that fills every room that you share, not much is done other than a slight head nod acknowledging one another’s existence.

Just as he deeply irks you by merely being around and having the nerve to breath the same air, his hatred in return is equally fierce. You’re an unstoppable force and he’s the immovable object constantly butting heads. The problem is the two of you are so parallel that neither of you can ever seem to get an advantage for long. It’s a constant stalemate. You get him in flag football, he returns the favor in floor hockey. You bone his little sister, he porks your ex-girlfriend.

Had you actually rushed the same house, who knows? Maybe you’d be best buds. But that’s simply not on the table here. There’s no mutual respect for the worthy challenge you bring to one another or the similarities the two of you share. You’re each other’s arch-nemesis and you must embarrass and destroy them whenever the opportunity presents itself.

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