It happens every time. I’m walking to classes, minding my own business when over the horizon I see it. Fully erect, cut at the tip and usually dripping wet from the early morning mist, it is there. The obelisk. As I walk forward it only gets larger, as if yelling out in some unspoken diatribe “u have a small pee pee.” I should turn back, just take another route, but it’s too late.

If only that was the end of it. I can live with the fact that I don’t have a pristine pyramidal scrotum leading to a mathematically perfect member. After all, aren’t all of us boys a little worried whether our little buddy is as minuscule as the bandwidth of a Panopto recording?

 But out of the corner of my eye, a new challenger approaches.

 Three huge brick pillars creep over the distance. Screaming at my inferiority. They taunt me with their sheer girth. I walk by, shaking with the overwhelming anxiety of these absolute mammoths penetrating my corneas. Granted, only one of the monoliths has a practical use as a garage ventilator. But I’ll be damned if I won’t compete by taping two Takis to my pubis for aesthetic purposes.

 I walk through the three monoliths. Gently caressing them, whispering under my breath things only me and the art shall know. Because no one else could ever understand the pain, the absolute suffering and unreasonable expectations thrust upon me when taking that walk through Red Square. I submit to their superiority. I move on, until the next day when I must repeat the ritual once more.