How I Know It's Time To Leave

I'm graduating in three weeks. Today I got a tassle from the Fulbright college. As the secretary combed through it with her fingers, she explained how to detach the tassle that came with my cap and attach this new one. She referenced a hook on the peak of the cap, and said, "You know what that is, right." I said of course. When I was leaving, I turned around in the doorway and said, "Oh, I almost forgot. One of my really good friends hasn't picked up his cap and gown yet. Do you know if the bookstore will be selling those again before graduation?"

People ask me all the time if I'm sad to leave. I always say not yet. It hasn't really hit yet. I'm still going to class and skimming the books I'm supposed to read. I'm still spending time with my fraternity brothers. When I can't do those things anymore, then I'll be sad. But at the same time, I feel like its time to leave. My coolness is peaking - if I was here next fall I'd be like a Beanie Baby or Lindsy Lohan. Or the second, third, and fourth seasons of Heroes. I could go on.

Anyway, I was in the library today waiting for a computer. There's an established system here at Mullins Library - there are two waiting areas, on opposite sides of the bank of computers. People gather in lines there, and each side takes turns when computers open up. It's unwritten, but it's also eternal. In four years at the University the system has never failed. I have never yet had a computer dispute.

After two or three minutes of standing alone in line at my favorite spot by the atlases (because you can rest your backpack on them), one of the new desktop Macs opened up. This are highly coveted because the screens are gigantic. All the windows computers use flatscreen shoeboxes. You have to kiss the screen to see any words. But, like I said, a computer opened up. I started towards it when a tall young man sat in the open chair. It was like he apparated right into it. It was like he was an evil wizard.

I hesitated. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a big deal. It was a computer, and I could find another. Maybe he had to email his dying grandmother, or he was committing internet fraud. But I decided to say something. "Hey man," I said, "I was kind of in line for the next computer."

He swiveled around and looked at me before responding. "There is no line," he said with a scoff, and turned back around to login. I stood shocked, but also very embarrassed. I said okay, and walked away. This was the first time in four years the computer waiting system has failed. I'm almost afraid to go back in the library. I'm glad I'm leaving in three weeks.

(The worst or best part - I'm pretty sure I knew him. When he typed in his login, I recognized it, and wanted to ask, Are you X? Do you know Y? I felt like I had made a poor first impression, though, and kept the secret to myself. I'll take it to my grave, then get out of there quickly, because if the cops catch me at my own grave that could stir something up amongst the people who thought I was dead.)

An Assassins Story

Our fraternity is playing Assassins: with teams of big and little brothers, each team eliminates their target, another big little team, and takes that teams target. The one team left in the end wins. It has been a heated, controversial, and at times colorful competition. I recently received this email from one player who was contesting his death. You might call this a guest blogger:

I would just like to pass on this story to you, because, regardless of the outcome, it was a glorious battle for my life, with multiple parties taking hits on both sides.

For the past three days, I have avoided my house like the plague. Only randomly dropping in to grab essentials, I make my visits at unannounced times. Tonight was no different, and I made my nightly stop about an hour after step show practice was over. During a brief chat with three of my roommates, I let slip that I was heading to the library to work on a lab report with some people (Mistake numero uno). But, it was just my housemates. Right? Would they sell me out? Wrong.

There we are in the library, vigorously working on our lab reports (peopleofwalmart.com), and none other than the venerable Jordan Difani walks up and taps me on my shoulder. Fear gripped my insides like ice. I glance down at my watch, only to realize that it was 12:15. For those of you who aren't familiar with David W. Mullins Library protocol, it is open until 2:00 a.m. However, after midnight, the only door open is the one on the Union side. Hence, only one door to freedom.

Quickly calculating and realizing my predicament, I begin to weigh my chances. Knowing there is a underground entrance to the library into the Chemistry Building, I proceeded to have a flirty conversation with a wonderfully rude beast of a woman named Michelle, who happened to be working the main desk at the time. She very kindly informed me that under no circumstances would I be able escape my prison through that venue.

As I stared at the door, I saw the growing masses of assassins grouping at the one exit, preparing to do unspeakable evils to me.

I made the call, and rallied in the troops. Mike Turner, Jon Braschler, Tim Yopp, and four of my friends from the BCM answered my call to battle. They came armed with a large blanket and ingenuity, and together we hatched a brilliant escape plan.

We placed the tallest one of them, which happened to be a girl, under the blanket, and the rest of them crowded around it. As we creeped up the stairs from the basement to the Golden Doorway, I hung back, biding my time. As soon as they reached the main floor, they were seen. They broke off at a sprint (or as much of one as the blanket-covered body could manage) for Maple Drive, not making it very far before Matt Chappell quickly and concisely blocked their path. What continued was much grappling and water-squirting, with the biggest of the Allies grabbing the psuedo-me and attempting to carry her off to the BCM and safety.

In the ensuing confusion, I took my chance. I bounded off towards Dickson Street, nearly measuring my length on the stairs. I made it a good five steps before they realized what had happened. As I was sprinting away, the Axis powers-at-be chased after me. Being a good twenty yards ahead of them and already running, I very easily made it into the welcome open door of Jon Braschler's truck outside of the Music Ed building. With the windows up and the doors locked, they jumped, pushed, and squirted futilely.

We drove off in victory, but it wasn't long before we realized that the screaming we were hearing was more of the Nazis having launched themselves onto the top of Jon's truck. We slowed down to let them off, and Josh took his leave. Before getting back up to speed, we wanted to make sure that there was no one else on the car, not knowing that Tommy Hughes was still clinging on for dear life. We slowed down, and I cracked my window (Mistake Number Two) to yell at whoever that they needed to jump off then or most likely be subject to much Road Rash.

Tommy wisely hopped off, and as we were speeding up It happened. The Shot Heard Round Dickson. Running beside the accelerating truck, Tommy made two valiant squirts into the cracked passenger side window. They missed. They hit. Both sides could have sworn on their momma's grave the opposite outcomes. We will never know the truth.

He Stole My Shirt

I am in Mullins Library and I'm staring at a janitor who is wearing my shirt. I have no idea who this person is. He has hair like thin, fake snakes and the kind of beard that eighth graders start growing and never shave because they believe that when it comes to facial hair, it's quantity over quality. Heck, maybe he thinks those sort of wheat grass bristles are quality.

The shirt he's wearing is a cheap white Wal-Mart shirt; it has a home printed, iron on image melted to the front. The image is of Mr. Clean, with his blue background and red letters that say "VOTE BALD."

When I was in tenth grade, I aimed for the stars. I ran for sophomore class treasurer. I also ran an aggressive campaign, complete with posters of me dressed as various action heroes, and endorsements from personages no less than Abraham Lincoln (who said I was righteous) and Howard Taft (who said I was above average). But the centerpiece of my political push were the twenty shirts I paid for and hand printed in my basement.

At the time of the elections, I was bald. Yes, it was a dark year in my life. True story: I shaved my head myself with a disposable razors, and just as a man cuts himself on the cheek, I would cut myself on the head. But when I cut my head open, I couldn't tell, until blood began to run past my eyes, and I began to panic that finally, after all my prepartion and paranoia, that serial killer had put an axe into my head. I would clean up the blood, but each time I shaved, since I couldn't see where I was shaving, I would open the cut again and enlarge it. I was taller than everyone else, though, so no one could tell. Yet I digress.

I gave these shirts to all the girls I had crushes on, and I gave the leftovers to my friends, and I lost the election. That's when I learned who my real friends were: the girls I had crushes on.

But now, six years after that election, a complete stranger who looks like hungover is more normal than sober is wearing that shirt, and I am once again reminded of how profound an impact I had on those girls I had crushes on.