We Spend Our Years as a Tale that is Told

Last week I took a mid-term exam upon which I wrote nine pages. Sadly, many of the generalizations I made about Louisiana history between 1717 and 1763 (and which I worked hard to learn from class and the professor's textbook) on the exam will be accepted as proof I have learned a lot about Louisiana history. I miss junior high Louisiana history. I may not have learned high-level statements about demographic growth of the time, but I did learn a narrative full of character stories, battles and glories.

Amanda and I went with Zeke and Cody to Hammond Friday night to have coffees at the Green Bean. This gave me a fellowship fix and reminded me of how carefree, loved and loving I felt when I had long hair, a scruffy and scary beard and wore hopelessly mismatched thrift store articles of clothing with worn out red Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Afterward we went to the Wesleyan foundation at SLU for one of the most awkward concerts ever. There were a handful of people in a room standing around chatting while a full-throttle guitar act provided a cacophonous background noise. No matter, I glanced at my friends and saw their smiles and was reminded of why I love them so much. As A Soup Named Stew took stage, I couldn't help but giggle and cheer as the likes of "Robot Dentist" and "She Broke Up With Me" reminded me of all those times at Cafe Chi Alpha.

That evening Amanda and I would spend curled up next to each other in a twin-sized bed at my parents' house, sleeping in until 10:30 a.m. to be greeted by my Hero, my dad, who would lead us to the polls to vote for the victorious Bobby Jindal. After a family brunch at the International House of Pancakes, my Sunshine, Jessica Frances, cried into her pillow until I asked her what was wrong. Her big brother was leaving to go to college again, just like 3 years ago when I had done that to her the first time.

Back in Baton Rouge Saturday night, Patrick Holly, the kindred spirit and friend who always has something glorious to say, gladly accompanied me to the drunken idiosy known as the student section of Tiger Stadium. We watched some jerk spit ice at his girlfriend, along with the best band of any college in the nation and a struggling football team that pulled back into the lead with one second left in the game. Thirty-two ounce cups of soda pop flew effortlessly across the stadium as the fans threatened to produce a nuclear fusion of celebration. Either the fact that it had been a whole year since I had been in Tiger Stadium or the intensity of the moment prompted me to declare it my best ever moment in Death Valley. As my friend and I sat in his car deadlocked in post-gameday traffic, we talked about things in life that matter, wary of our Arch nemesis, Smalltalk.

But what happened to the Saturdays of meeting up with all my friends who live on campus and tailgating / going to the game together?

At least some things never change, and constancy is realized. As in all past athletic endeavors, I struggled to be non-awkward at my second intramural soccer game last night.

At least, I'm good at speling. One day I'm going to make that an undergraduate degree. Spelling. It would be more useful that most majors out there.

Business Management?

How could I have ever wanted to major in that? How can that be a major? Theorists even debate whether or not management can be taught scientifically. I guess you're not a trait theorist if you choose that major; or you're too apathetic to care what your major is.

<>Wait...no, that would be Accounting. < /self-loathing >