Now, it's pretty convenient that I'm in the dénouement of my personal identity crisis at the midpoint of my college career, but fate doesn't wait, it just sort of happens.
Last Friday I went to Monty's for the first time. I'd been at a pal's house and I left my dorm earlier that day wearing a sleeveless tee from my middle school basketball team and tight black jeans.
At some point the forces of the Earth and gravity pull the baby back. It’s harnessed back into reality and told that to fly is impossible, to dream is irresponsible and unrealistic, and to hope is nothing but a waste of time.
Valentine’s Day and I have been at odds for a while now. I’ve gone back and forth on how I’ve felt about the day that’s marked personal disappointment, relief, turmoil and even the loss of a v-card (cliché!).
Do you remember going to a record store (ever?) and seeing two greasy-haired locals with crusty headphones blaring, hunched over a pile of Dinosaur Jr. and Pixies records?
Now, as I’m trying to move on and be a happy college kid who’s searching for better days with nothing but a hard penis and a keen sense of style (am I shallow ‘cause all my clothes designer?) in tow, I’m running into a few speed bumps.
