The night began with an ending: my last final, done and done, as they say, in a tiny computer carrel on the third floor of our--at this point--nearly-deserted library.
It was, as I'd both complained and boasted at the English department picnic earlier today (an unusually awkward event; I could only summon up the courage to talk to the two least intimidating professors), a short final. Twenty questions. True or false.
Any mention of my Restoration and 18th Century Comedy final, wherein I confused the author of an 18th century satire with one of 18th century satire's greatest targets, shall be made unnecessary by this brief aside.
The night--if you'll allow me to beat this particular horse--began with an ending. I think I did well, I don't really know. It's hard to tell on a test like that. We'll see.
It didn't really feel like an ending. This, my last final of the year, was one of a number of recent events in my life that didn't feel important enough. My expectations are probably just too high.
I walked back to the room full of this disturbing indifference and played Grand Theft Auto: 3 for an hour or two. I've become addicted. Fundamentally, addiction is when you continue though you don't want to. It's late enough that that feels profound, but I know quite well that it's not.
Sockless Pete retrieved me to watch City of God, a beautiful and unassuming Brazilian film. There was a good group there, and I had to drink about half of one of Jubb's busticators before I figured out how to spill the rest on myself. A narrow escape.
After a lot of adolescent-on-adolescent violence and a pornographic amount of hugs for the people leaving tomorrow morning, us legal adults went to the bar.
Sockless Pete, Jinx, Our Bold Hero, and Beth (who I'll call by her "real name" until I think of something clever) sat around at The Wooden Nickel for an hour or so, crinkling peanuts and telling the sort of tales you tell when you're buzzed.
Jinx had a prior engagement, as Beth soon reminded us, and at 1:20 we trooped back to Lawrence, where, under the auspices of the Seeley G. Mudd Library, Jinx and one of Jubb's bosom buddies "wrastled." The result, as in her two subsequent matches (one against a nimble Our Bold Hero) was a loss for Jinx.
Of the assembled, only three people (I was too cowardly by half) were willing to engage in some fast-paced '80s-style streaking, however short-lived. Sockless Pete, Beth, and Alex (same deal as Beth): may you live in history as you lived, drunkenly, tonight.