Picture this: You arrive in a brand-spanking-new classroom ready to start the semester. You’ve got a brand-spanking-new professor, a new set of ballpoint pens, a new notebook, and also… a new water bottle that your dear sweet Grandma gifted you for Christmas because you complain about how dehydrated you are.
Anyway, this isn’t just any water bottle. It’s the elite, reliable, precious, historically notorious Hydroflask and you’ve pledged—to your grandma—that you will be drinking at least a gallon of water everyday from that Hydroflask.
Big mistake. And no, I’m not talking about the incessant pissing you’ll have to endure. I’m talking about that loud, angry exterior of the Hydroflask that threatens to destroy your reputation in the classroom just by existing. That ear-splitting clanging just dying to reveal itself at a moment’s notice.
And alas, your reputation dies one day in class.
While grabbing for your brand-spanking-new notebook, you knock the Hydroflask next to your backpack over and the unforeseeable becomes seeable, audible even. Time slows down as the water bottle tips over and finally crashes, booming against the hard ground. Every single head in the lecture hall—no, in the building—turns towards your frightened face. You are vile, corrupt, wicked! Death notes with letters cut from Columbia’s literary magazines begin to appear under your dorm room. You are frightened and miss class for the next three weeks.
Finally, the emotional battle of bringing the Hydroflask in or not comes to a culmination: Sorry Grandma, my Hydroflask won’t be making an appearance again.
