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An Interview with the Sexiest Under the Button Writer


Photo by Pamela De La Cruz / The Daily Pennsylvanian 

Following the results of last week’s poll, the writers of Under the Button Dot Com have taken it upon themselves to spotlight the supposed "sexiest" member of the writing family. Standing at a whopping 7 feet tall, Pamela De La Cruz replied to requests for interview ecstatically. Over a piping hot chai tea (some would say maybe as hot as Pamela herself) at the local Stommons, a series of 5 questions were asked. Pamela asked for no more, as her schedule was quite full already, and she couldn't waste more than 10.869 minutes there. The following is a transcript of the steamy interaction.

Interviewer: Hello! It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Can I call you Pam?

P: No.

Interviewer: Great! Well, our first question is obviously the one everyone wants to know: Are you seeing anyone currently?

P: Yeah. Someone new every night though. If you’re interested, I can add you to the spreadsheet, but it’s a process. First, you have to complete the application at https://bit.ly/2Pk2hav 

Interviewer: Of course. I can only imagine how bombarded you are with love confessions. But anyway, second question: what type of milk do you like?

P: I’m a nut milk type of person. Nothing like slurping the creamy white liquid off a fresh almond, I always say.

Interviewer: Very valid. Our third question is a classic: what’s your major? State? 

P: Yeah. Totally.

Interviewer: Crazy. While we’re on the topic, there are a few rumors about you possibly being behind the recent snake attack at Lauder College House. Care to expand?

P: What are you? A cop? I can’t answer that without a lawyer present. It wasn't me, but even if it was, the culprit did nothing wrong. 

Interviewer: Ah. Well, I see we’re running out of time, so my final question is what your ideal date would be.

P: We’re running through 31st street, blaring sirens behind us; I can only catch glimpses of you in flashes of red, blue, red, blue, and then, darkness. We’re hiding in an alleyway, clutching between us a hot steaming Wawa hoagie. You’re shaking, but I let my trembling fingers run through your greasy hair. My lips brush against your cheek; you taste like onion.