It was a Tuesday night. I had just spent a grueling 30 minutes on the stair-stepper, working my glutes to absolute perfection. As I stepped off my favorite machine (I'm on that shi daily), I felt a familiar itchiness. I nervously glanced around before shoving my hand downward and providing some much-needed relief. But then, I saw her! It was the girl that sat next to me in class but that I'd never had the courage to say hi to -- I had failed to notice her in my pre-itch surveil. She stared in horror, utterly appalled at my primitive and vulgar act -- a stare I shall never forget. I quickly turned away and made my escape, ashamed and defeated.

That night, I lay in bed unable to fall asleep, ripping my banana berry nic to drown my sorrows. "How great would it be," I pondered, "If I had a separate, more civil way to relieve that dreaded itch!" And all of a sudden, the greatest idea I'd ever had sprung from the depths of my unconscious: A Ballcuzi in the WashU gym locker room!