Creative writing vs. bad breath
I can only reply to you, the both of you, the two of you together, with an anecdote the veracity of which drips with the oleaginous mouthfeel of unctuous butter. I attended a Kenyon College meet and greet back in 2005 with my daughter and had the misfortune of stumbling into the most supercilious buffoon you could ever imagine, who's daughter (he was surreptitiously proud to sing) had been accepted, how do they call it, . . . early? This papier mache man was really silly, and seemed offended when, after letting slip that his son was "going" to Stanford--and I replied, "Oh, Stanford, I know that school. Isn't that somewhere in Arizona?"--looked at me as if his entire life had been drained of its vital force. And yet, what was worst about this fellow was not his utter invisibility. No, it was the stench of his breath that smelled like the very thing of death itself. I could barely stand next to him as he spoke his trifle. Well, his daughter did end up "going" to Kenyon--my own daughter ran into her on several occasions--but she transferred to Swarthmore her sophomore year. I wish only the best for her and hope with all my heart that she graduated a happy person.