My offense is rank.
It smells to heaven.
(You know you've done something cosmically horrible if you're reduced to quoting Hamlet)
Life synopsis: Cats. Drinking. AP exams. Drinking. Drinking drinking GRAD WEEK (re: More drinking, with a side of concussion, curiously enough), grad. Grad actually turned out to be an exceptionally worthwhile experience...except for the whole part wherein I fucked myself immensely over. So yeah, Sam and I were stunning, Keegan (almost wrote 'Keith' there) wowed us with his kilt-y prowess; however as this event was the facilitator of my stupidity, I have to give it an overall neutral with the thumb rating. Explanation? Alllllllllllllllllllrighty then.
I only went to two grad parties, toga being the first. For never doing anything terribly exciting I seem to have taken on the role of a minor LCI celebrity; the kind everyone's heard of but doesn't generally care all that much about. I on the other hand knew (or remembered) virtually no one's name. I did however come across a slightly bearded individual who I quickly and affectionately christened Moses. Perhaps the only readily entertaining individual that seemed to pop up during my frequent trail blazings (that is, of course, outside my immediate clique), I eventually gave him my number during one conversation so that he could contact me as soon as God reopened dialogue with him (don't worry you crazy Christians, I told him about the shoe thing. He's been informed about the whole holy-bush, shoe-hating movement). Having given out my number to several interesting female persons that same night (and being only slightly impaired in my judgement), this didn't strike me as a bad idea until some time later.
The next party he joined me, Sam, Kristen and (occasionally) Megan as we stumbled about the north side spouting heresy and general nonsense. When he asked me to dance at grad it dawned on me that I was getting in pretty damn deep, but turning him down seemed a cold thing to do - everyone was dancing with everyone! I was later informed of my general chicken-shitedness. I have to conclude that this individual was (and remains) entirely correct. Sam, I owe you a dollar.
So, he phoned me tonight and asked me out. This, ladies and gentlemen (or man), is why I am so metaphorically and poetically smelly. Of course I turned him down and finally told the truth, but I feel horrible. On several very different planes I am experiencing this discomfort and that is really what unsettles me. First, that I am the disturbing prototype of everything I loathe in females. Second, that I performed unnecessary cruelty to someone who is, by definition, awesome incarnate. And third...that I feel THIS bad about it. And I'm not entirely sure what that last one means.
Keith, come home already so I can look at you without an ocean to dilute the picture.
(You know you've done something cosmically horrible if you're reduced to quoting Hamlet)
Life synopsis: Cats. Drinking. AP exams. Drinking. Drinking drinking GRAD WEEK (re: More drinking, with a side of concussion, curiously enough), grad. Grad actually turned out to be an exceptionally worthwhile experience...except for the whole part wherein I fucked myself immensely over. So yeah, Sam and I were stunning, Keegan (almost wrote 'Keith' there) wowed us with his kilt-y prowess; however as this event was the facilitator of my stupidity, I have to give it an overall neutral with the thumb rating. Explanation? Alllllllllllllllllllrighty then.
I only went to two grad parties, toga being the first. For never doing anything terribly exciting I seem to have taken on the role of a minor LCI celebrity; the kind everyone's heard of but doesn't generally care all that much about. I on the other hand knew (or remembered) virtually no one's name. I did however come across a slightly bearded individual who I quickly and affectionately christened Moses. Perhaps the only readily entertaining individual that seemed to pop up during my frequent trail blazings (that is, of course, outside my immediate clique), I eventually gave him my number during one conversation so that he could contact me as soon as God reopened dialogue with him (don't worry you crazy Christians, I told him about the shoe thing. He's been informed about the whole holy-bush, shoe-hating movement). Having given out my number to several interesting female persons that same night (and being only slightly impaired in my judgement), this didn't strike me as a bad idea until some time later.
The next party he joined me, Sam, Kristen and (occasionally) Megan as we stumbled about the north side spouting heresy and general nonsense. When he asked me to dance at grad it dawned on me that I was getting in pretty damn deep, but turning him down seemed a cold thing to do - everyone was dancing with everyone! I was later informed of my general chicken-shitedness. I have to conclude that this individual was (and remains) entirely correct. Sam, I owe you a dollar.
So, he phoned me tonight and asked me out. This, ladies and gentlemen (or man), is why I am so metaphorically and poetically smelly. Of course I turned him down and finally told the truth, but I feel horrible. On several very different planes I am experiencing this discomfort and that is really what unsettles me. First, that I am the disturbing prototype of everything I loathe in females. Second, that I performed unnecessary cruelty to someone who is, by definition, awesome incarnate. And third...that I feel THIS bad about it. And I'm not entirely sure what that last one means.
Keith, come home already so I can look at you without an ocean to dilute the picture.