I just… saw him one day on Sproul. 

What was he doing there? I don’t know. It wasn’t game day. Or Cal Day. Absent the normal young child he was holding too tightly for a photograph, he looked… different. The obtrusive GBC lights illuminated his enchanting figure, which rested elegantly on the trunk of one of those dead, lifeless trees. 

He caught my gaze, and I stared into his enormous, deeply terrifying eyes. Novel, electrifying warmth jolted through my body, as though Zeus himself was fucking me with one of his personal lightning bolts. I’d never felt that before. Is this an orgasm? I thought to myself. 

I walked slowly towards him across those sexy, gum-covered bricks, before stopping and hiding my face. I’m such a fucking idiot. Who do I think I am? Into ME? Literally who am I kidding? I thought in despair. I’ll never, ever be good enough. I’m so fucking stupid. 

I felt a furry finger tap my shoulder. I turned around and he was there, aggressively grinning, just as he has been for 75 years. 


I could barely contain myself. I wanted his absurdly disproportionate mouth on mine. I wanted HIM. I saw my reflection in his shiny nose – for a fleeting moment I also saw our future, but more so, I saw us in his burrow, lying together. I’ll let you fill in the details.

He gently slid my phone out of my hand, tapped a few buttons, and handed it back. In that 20 seconds, he miraculously guessed my passcode (123456) and created a contact for himself. “O,” it read. 

“It’s a name I give out to very few,” he whispered. 

“For?” I asked, barely breathing. 

“Texting… Texting about getting those clothes Oski-your-body. Go Bears!” he whispered, even quieter this time. 

We didn’t just “text” that night. It was nothing like I’d ever experienced. Who knew a fictional university mascot bear could elicit that type of human passion. I literally could not be happier that I stopped responding to my overly-concerned dumbass therapist just a week ago.

I don’t need a stupid therapist or medication. I am fully sustained and neutralized by our passionate, graphic text conversations. I lie awake every night, waiting for his texts to illuminate my room from my nightstand, next to my unopened bottle of Prozac.

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