Since the days of my youth, I have been frequently told by well-meaning adults, “You shouldn’t let people walk all over you.” But they don’t understand. Nobody does. The truth of the matter is, I like when people walk all over me. Sometimes I even pretend I’m the floor.
I think it all started the day I was born. I was dropped, as many babies are (considering how slippery the average baby is), and upon impact my baby brain was filled suddenly with a lust and yearning for floors, and with a desire to become one, feelings which would grow exponentially with every passing year.
My earliest memory is of that very desire. I was laying down playing with my dinosaur toys, as usual, when I decided I wanted to become the floor. I put the dinosaurs on my back and stayed there motionless for upwards of two hours. My mother found me, and asked me what I was doing. I didn’t know, I just knew it felt good.
I would indulge myself a few times a week for years, just laying on the floor of my parent’s living room, or in the kitchen on special occasions. At first my parents didn’t know to watch out for me, so they would step on me or kick and trip over me. I liked that, but after a month or so they learned, and they stepped over me effortlessly, wherever I was. Then I would whine, and beg them to step on me. If I was lucky, I would get a light foot on my back out of pity.
That was the state of things for some 15 years, but now I’m at Pitt, and everything has changed. I’m a couple hundred miles away from the floor that I loved so dearly. This has, it seems, only increased my urges.
You may have seen me last semester, prostrate in the middle of the Commons Room in our beloved landmark Catherine. The problem was, of course, that no one would step on me there. They would see me lying there and step around, except for a few merciful frat boys who made a game out of stepping on me. There was one instance, though, that stands out exceptionally in my mind: a tour group, led by a Pathfinder, who was walking backwards as she spoke to the prospective Pitt students about the Honors College or something. And, facing the other way, she didn’t see me laying there, and she stepped on me!
The feeling was something incomparable to all the steps I had experienced before. This was unintentional, so I felt all the more floor-like. People don’t step on the floor out of pity, or out of jest, they step on it because it’s there, and for the first time since the very depths of my youth I experienced that. I felt like a true floor.
My life has since been a desperate struggle to reclaim this feeling, which I call ‘euflooria’. Yesterday I positioned myself just outside one of the elevators on the first floor of the WPU, and though only one person ended up stepping on me, I had an absolutely genius idea as wave after wave of groups with very specific shared interests gathered around me: I’ll start a club.
So, this is what this article is ultimately about: if you also like to pretend that you’re the floor, join my club and we’ll pretend to be the floor together. Maybe we’ll even step on each other from time to time, depending on where the mood takes us. If this interests you, please contact me.
By: Eric Brinling