It was a dark and stormy night. Well, not quite stormy, but in the low thirties with a brisk and terribly biting wind. Nothing seemed amiss. ‘Twas a Friday night after a long and arduous week of participating...

Now while the story I am about to tell is mostly true, details have been changed to protect the innocent as they were involved in the story. But the fear, passion, elation and misery that is discussed is all too real. I don’t recommend doing this to anyone, unless they want to feel completely at a loss for words.

The other day, I found a crumpled letter in a wastepaper basket. What was I doing snooping through the garbage? An ordinary person might think it unusual to browse through trash cans, but I find it actually quite worthwhile. You really can get to know someone by searching through their trash. I’m serious. And I’m not talking about fucking gross shit with moldy food, etc., etc., obviously. Anyway, this letter that I found was so curious and utterly real that the only thing I could do was have it published here. And it had beautiful handwriting. Besides, it’s a work of pure literature — and don’t worry I changed all the names. And if you ask me what the real names are, I’ll kill you.

Springtime is recognized around the world as a season of rebirth, fresh beginnings and a renewed sense of nymphomania. This spring, however, greeted many Backpage writers with the bitter taste of failure — similar to the taste of octopus droppings (although some cultures do regard this as a delicacy).

First-year Gillian Friedman was a competitive salsa dancer in Seattle before she came to Whitman. Now she hopes to bring the spirit and energy of salsa dancing to campus through a newly formed salsa club,...