Saturday, May 14, 2005

[‘]Round here we stay up very, very, very, very late.

Additionally, while it is by now obvious that we talk just like lions, we sacrifice very much like lambs. We are the March of people, if you will, 'round here.

At one point last night a girl threatened to detesticle me with the heel of her shoe. I informed her that I had as a precautionary measure moved my junk – a term that here includes all external genitalia – to a mirror, where it was completely safe. This was not the highlight of my night. I fear I have yet to achieve the low point of today, the day after, although my hair appears to be sweating blood and I am listening to early-period Counting Crows. Everything they are saying re: ‘Round Here I find descriptive of my here and the immediate environs. In case you were wondering, I inserted the apostrophe that takes the place of “a” at the beginning of that song title. Apparently Adam Duritz couldn’t be bothered. That’s fair; he had a lot on his mind when putting together August and Everything After. I don’t think he’s a dick for leaving off the apostrophe.

When I was eight or possibly nine/seven, I went to Schlitterbahn, which is this huge waterpark about 45 minutes south of Austin on I-35. It was a four-day weekend from school, and we went on Friday. It is impossible to have a bad time at a waterpark when you’re seven, and similarly impossible to have a good time immediately afterwards, especially when you burn your feet on the pavement in the parking lot, which I did, and you realize in the car that the gallon or so of river water you swallowed earlier in the day is full of angry, angry paramecii.

Anyway, to get into Schlitterbahn - which is German for the process of slightly overweight people becoming noticeably more so with the aid of unfortunately chosen swimwear, a phenomenon discovered in Bavaria in the early 1920s – you exchange money for a bright yellow armband, the kind that delineates over 21 people from squeaky-voiced infants at, for example, the Lowell House Spring Formal. I thought it might well make me awesome to wear such an armband to school to show people that I had been to Schlitterbahn. This was a good guess, on my part. Less laudable is the logic that led me to believe I shouldn’t bathe until school on Tuesday – four days away. This makes no sense to me, now, as of course the entire idea of the armband was to last in water – not just shower-intense water but Great Gushing Bastard – then the most popular attraction at Schlitterbahn – intense water. But at the time it was important that I not shower. And that’s why I got an “Acceptable,” my first non-“exemplary” mark, in conduct in second grade, because I came to school smelling like ass and my teacher wanted to put a stop to that shit but-quick.

The 2005 Lowell House Spring Formal – henceforth referred to as Champagne Torture ’99, for no apparent reason except this horrible goddamn pain on – on, I kid you not - my face and in my skull – was last night. I went, despite no longer attending Harvard, or, indeed, any college/employment-substitute worth mentioning.

THERE IS NO GOD. THAT SAID, THE ABSENCE OF GOD, THE GODVACUUM IF YOU WILL, IS AN WRATHFUL, OLD-TESTAMENT GODVACUUM. HE DOES NOT THROW NOT THUNDERBOLTS AT THE CHILDREN HE DOES NOT LAY CLAIM TO OR IN ANY FORM REDEEM.

That’s probably all that needs to be said about Champagne Torture ’99.

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