A Love Letter to Sleepaway Camp

Dear Sleepaway Camp,

As I watch my housekeeper pack up my younger siblings for their four-hour ride to the middle of nowhere, I realize that I sometimes long for the days of sand in my underwear. There was a time when I too made the journey to my overpriced summer home. Why my parents thought it would be a great idea to send me to a remote location in the woods for the price of a vacation at a five-star hotel, escapes my understanding. I do however thank them for spending the cost of a Birkin bag for me to develop friendships with people that I may never see again, or in some cases, only at drunken reunions in the city, or like, next summer.

With all due respect to camp, you are a horrible yet magical place. Like the bro who ignores my texts a solid quarter of the time, I'm fucking obsessed with you. Where else in the world can one destroy the American songbook piece by piece by changing the lyrics to describe your feelings for a place that forces you to pretend to enjoy competitive sports? This is not to say that we didn’t, because the opportunity to casually kick a bitch in the shins was a welcomed one. Soccer, horseback riding, campfire building and kayaking are all extremely dykey things that I pretty much foamed at the mouth to participate in. My competitive spirit doubled when that annoying nicegirl who was unfortunately placed in our bunk EVERY FUCKING YEAR despite us dis-requesting her, was on the opposite team and I was given the chance to completely humiliate her in a manly setting.

Besides making me question my prepubescent betchiness and making me enjoy things I wouldn’t be caught dead doing out of my camp uniform, I do appreciate the wonderful memories/life skills you have provided me with. I will be forever grateful for learning how to effectively hide my cell phone usage. Your “catering” service taught me how to properly commence a starvation diet and actively avoid any food in the shape of a seashell. I also learned the zipcodes of many Pennsylvania towns, that cleanup is for poor people, and that subtle bullying over a 2-month period can and will cause anyone I don't like to go the fuck home, including the poor Canadian counselor. My artistic abilities were vastly improved, as I will always be able to perfectly draw phallic imagery on the token whore's face in the dead of a dark and silent night.

So Camp, I would like to thank you for providing me with some of the best years of my life, without which I would never have learned to complain my way out of any activity. Thank you for putting me into direct contact with live bears, chipmunks and the end of my virginity. Thank you for teaching me how to play a part in a black market of candy, tampons and condoms. Thank you for the forced awkward 1950s style dances with the older boys' bunks. Thank you Thank you Thank you, you dirty son of a bitch.

We fucking love you <3333


I live 10 for 2



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