I, Elizabeth Collins, former resident of the “Collins Mansion For Arts, Philosophy, & the Creation of Ideas,” have had enough of these breathers living in my beautiful home, with its stunning stained-glass windows and charming wrap-around porch.

Though I died in 1897, I have remained in my house as a spirit hovering among the living. Had I known it would become a “frat house,” I might have burned the house down and taken it with me. I may still.

Suffice it to say, these particular modern-day breathers are no match for the high society intellectuals who once frequented my estate in the late 1800s. My husband was a wildly successful attorney. In these walls we’ve entertained doctors, inventors, politicians, and artists alike.

Why, the esteemed author, Henry James, hosted a symposium in the very spot where I had to witness a prostitute squirt an ungodly amount of womanly fluid from her nether regions and into the anus of what I am assuming is a student (?) at this university.

Haunting my darling home has become a fate worse than death. Getting run over by a trolly car was nothing compared to seeing a grown man smell his fingers after digging at his scrotum, or seeing another chewing on his toenails like the shells of sunflower seeds.

And what possesses them to smell their underwear caked with feces, only to pull them out days later to wear once again? They fornicate with socks, often the same sock more than once … with up to a fortnight between uses. My ghostly night moans only seem to spur them on, inspiring them to revictimize an already used – and by now crunchy – sock.

All of this pales in comparison to watching, in utter disgust, as a man eats bean dip with his bare hand from the same finger he used to dig into his own anus just moments ago. It’s a shame modern medicine would prevent him from dying from e coli, which he will inevitably get, with any luck.

Even after all of the indignities I’ve suffered, I am still the lady of this house, and I refuse to leave my beloved abode. I’ve tried haunting these animals to scare them off, but they’re too drunk and stupid to notice. Their obsession with pornography and violent video games has rendered me powerless to get their attention.

What does get their attention are prostitutes masturbating in the center of a room. My lovely conservatory, where Henry David Thoreau & and I once contemplated the connection between man and nature, now serves as a meeting place for these boys – in a bizarre show of brotherhood, whilst they stand in a circle surrounding said prostitutes and ejaculate on them.

One thing that baffles me about this fraternity of neanderthals is their obsession with homosexuality. When they’re not calling each other “fags” or “queers” they’re either shoving an object into a new pledge’s rectum, or they’re sneaking into each other’s rooms late at night taking turns trading sexual favors.

My husband and I were highly regarded socialites. Our soirees were well known to be gallant affairs with fine wine, gourmet cuisine, dancing, and music. To be completely candid, there were also several nights that turned into scandalous sexual exploits involving multiple couples. We were no strangers to erotic group fun.

The parties these apes throw on the other hand are shamefully gauche. Instead of aged wine from crystal glasses, they drink stale beer out of plastic tubes they’ve inserted into each other’s “assholes.” Mon dieu!

Instead of music and dancing, they blast nonsense and stand around with their red plastic cups talking about “Jeff’s mom’s tits.” And if I see one more poor young lady get felt up while she’s passed out drunk I swear I will sell my soul to unleash demons on every member of Alph Beta Trust Fund.

Upon further reflection, perhaps I will burn the house down, and everyone who happens to be inside it.

Written by Molly Magee.