I would like to preface the following verbal diarrhea by saying the following: I, Joseph Arabidopsis Aphinyanaphongs, know nothing about fashion. In fact, if you ever see me reading Vogue or flipping through The New York Times Style magazine, it’s probably because A) I wanted to avoid making eye contact with you and/or B) I wanted to impress you with my cultural prowess and ability to read text in magazine form and/or C) I was looking for a sample to show your plastic surgeon.

In a place like Yale, where your best is never enough, the only way to stand out is to stick with what you’re good at. Unfortunately, however, there are many of us (read: most of us) who aren’t good at anything — myself included. So, you ask, what do lackluster plebeians like myself do to consume our lackluster days at Yale?

In a nutshell? We judge.

We judge you. We judge each other. We judge ourselves (a little) … well, actually, never, but that’s beside the point.

The main point is judging you.

Some examples include, but are not limited to, judging what you eat, judging where you sleep, judging how you like your eggs at breakfast, and what type of body wash you use. We judge what you wear, especially when you wear something that you shouldn’t wear, and even more especially when you wear something that we want but could never afford, so instead we bash you for wearing it in an attempt to gain an understanding of our seemingly meaningless existence on this planet.

And in our defense, at least it’s not personal. In fact, I am often prone to judge you even when you do the same things that I do — but why bother with judging yourself when you can judge someone else? This way, you save yourself a few therapist(s)’ payments and, in the end, isn’t that all that really matters?

Thus I commence my ramblings:

Dear Boy-Who-Wears-Gigantic-Framed-Designer-Sunglasses,

Please remove your ginormous sunglasses. No: I don’t care if they’re Dior or if they’re embedded with remnants of Mina Kimes’ big toe nail: you are a boy and there are some trends that should never cross the gender barrier. This is acceptable, however, if you can answer “yes” to any of the following:

Are you a cross-breed of Nicole Richie and the Green Goblin?

Do you have a bad case of conjunctivitis?

Are you in fact a praying mantis?

I rest my case.

While I am completely aware of the fact that it was all the rage this summer for your female counterparts, the rest of the free world knows that just because the ladies wear something certainly doesn’t mean it looks good.

Parting with your optical abominations may be difficult, but I have a 3-step tried and true method to recovery:

1) Put on sunglasses.

2) Look in mirror.

3) Cue world’s tiniest violin.

Who is that creature staring back at you with that pitiful Will-You-Please-Buy-A-Flower-Esque-Gaze?

It’s you.

Dear Urban Outfitters Sale Rack Raider,

We empathize with the urges you feel when Urban has a 50% mark down and you finally have the chance to buy that “vintage” Lucky Charms t-shirt for $5, but there’s a reason why its on sale: it some how made it through the 10% off sale, then the 20% off sale and student discount week, and, now, it’s reached a level of “TAKE ME, PLEASE!” even more undignified than the proverbial “town bicycle.” Despite such desperation, most people are still sane enough to avoid buying it. Everyone but you, that is.

If, however, such temptations prove impossible to overcome and you do buy it, do your best to wear it in the comforts of your shack and out of the public eye.

The chances of you running into a fellow Urban Outfitters sale rack raider is inevitable.

How would you feel if you were caught in the same outfit as the crack lady on Cross Campus?

Joe ‘Arabidopsis’ Aphinyanaphongs wrote this while wearing a “gettin’ lucky in Kentucky” T-shirt — what a hypocrite.