Yeah, That'll Happen #24
So I'm six weeks away (barring a catastrophic academic collapse) from the end of my college career, and I can think about is how much I'm going to miss this lifestyle. And I don't mean the parentally funded minimal responsibility way of life that I've grown so accustomed to. I'm just not ready to enter the real world; apparently, it's deemed socially unacceptable to dry yourself with a t-shirt because your towels smell too bad.
I'll be the first to admit it: As much as I love college, I hope it's not the best time of my life. It just seems a little sad to think that life peaks at age 22, and you spend the next sixty years missing the days where you and your friends would get drunk, hook up with randoms, and have farting contests in your underwear.
I'm going to miss my roommates. More specifically, I'm going to miss all the borderline homosexual stuff that we do. Danny likes to lock the door whenever he's in there, to maintain some sort of privacy. Not in my house. Mike and I keep a paperclip handy to pick the lock, and then one of us hops in the shower with him, while the other one seriously considers taking pictures. Ok, maybe I won't miss it all that much.
I'm going to miss fall breaks. I spent my last one in DC. From the hallowed halls of Georgiopolitanum Universitatis, on the banks of the Potomac, two kids quite seasoned for primetime stood over a jukebox picking out songs that remind us of high school. Of course, the only difference between this image and a Norman Rockwell painting is that Somil and I are both drunk, and this jukebox takes credit cards. Twenty dollars later, our playlist looks like the "Now That's What I Call Music: Nostalgic Alternative" CD. Would've been an awesome night had the bartenders not vetoed every single song we picked.
I'm going to miss that clean bathroom shine, which happens only once a semester, when one of your roommates all of a sudden decides that the bathroom is filthy and spends an afternoon cleaning it. You turn on the light, and say, wow, that was white underneath all those layers of hair, soap scum, and mildew? We should definitely get our security deposit back now.
I'm going to miss dressing up on Halloween. I realize that in some places you're allowed to wear your costume to work, but it's really only fun if your costume will either get you fired or a sexual harassment lawsuit. Anyway, I went as The Carver from Nip/Tuck. It's pop culture, it's timely, it's totally a douchebag thing that I'd do. And a word of advice: Saying "nice costume" to people who normally dress like weirdos is like asking fat women when the baby is due.
I'm going to miss all these guilty Saturdays I spent tailgating outside of Beaver Stadium, having a good time while secretly worrying about all the work that I should be doing instead. Wait, not true. I think that's the only thing I'm going to be excited about when I get into the real world: Work-free weekends. And paychecks, of course.
And now, as usual, things that seem to only happen to me.
It's been over ten years since I've seen Speed, but I still can't say "Arizona Wildcats" without doing my functional retard impression of Keanu Reeves.
I'm fairly certain girls have a rule which states that shoes don't look good unless they make your feet hurt. And that guys won't notice their shoes unless they complain about how much their feet hurt. Moreover, they won't wear these shoes unless they have to walk or dance all night.
I'm pleased to announce there is such a thing as second wind when it comes to drinking. I've noticed that if I get a little buzzed in the afternoon, like, five or six beers while playing Xbox, and then proceed to take a half hour nap, I can drink so much more when bar time rolls around. It's like your body develops drunk antibodies or something. Of course, this is only good for bragging rights, and not for bar tab.
Watching two and a half seasons of Nip/Tuck in six days really messes with your mind. It's completely ruined beautiful women for me. Now I wonder if each and every one of them aren't secretly a post-op transvestite. .
Why do I still consider it a personal victory when I can find my keys, wallet, and phone the morning after blacking out at a bar? Why do I still think it's funny to reply "still drunk" when people ask if I'm still hungover? Why do I really do anything?
You know those guys that have the elaborate cheers rituals that they like to do when they drink? That left right up down bottle clinking thing that supposedly symbolizes their lame ass friendship is probably the most annoying thing to witness at a bar. I'm fairly certain it's a ripoff of the code to get 99 lives in Contra.
Of course, even more annoying is the person who shows up at the pre-game announcing that they're drunk because they've been drinking since 3PM. Is it to anyone's surprise that they were drinking alone?
Why do girls always say, "Hey, watch my purse" while they go to the bathroom or something? What kind of shady dates has she gone on in the past where the guy allowed her purse to be stolen? Seriously, even my mom says that.
I went to the Kanye West concert last week. My favorite part was during Gold Digger, in an effort to get the audience to sing along, when he announced, "White people, this is your only chance to say [the N word]. Take advantage."
In between all the schoolwork, shenanigans, and job interviews I have to deal with during my last semester, I managed to score a girlfriend. Yes, she's a real person. Yes, she's pretty. No, I am not paying her. No, I did not have to trick her into doing this. No, to my knowledge, she did not lose a bet. No, I still don't know anything about women. Yes, I'm hoping to gain insight on why girls do things that seem perfectly normal to them, but crazy to the rest of us. Yes, I'm going to miss her when I graduate.
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