Snow Rules
The universe is balance.
We have over a foot of snow on the ground. I've never in my life seen this much snow. When Matt turned eight or ten--I don't remember which--he had a really kick ass pirate themed birthday party on a Saturday, except the Friday before we had a tremendous tremendous blizzard. Mom was under a lot of pressure from the other mom's to cancel the party, but she didn't, and it ended up one of the best childhood birthday parties. The same is so this weekend.
There's a new set of rules that develop when a foot of snow suddenly falls on SOhio and they aren't prepared and an example of such being they run out of salt and so they resort to sand but sand doesn't work and so no one drives for a weekend. When no one drives for the weekend, Oxford turns into the post-apocalyptic New York City in I Am Legend, and we get from place to place in roving drunken gangs walking down the middle of the road because the sidewalks are gone. People like Sam climb on top of buried cars and role down windshields and maybe or maybe not dent hoods and it's wrong but it's hilarious and when you're young and drunk hilarious is your modus operandi.
Snow drifts create mountains in your back yard and because you're discontent to spend the day working on a forgettable research paper for a class you took last semester, and because your friends are likewise discontent, what really matters is grooming that mountainside into a suitable snowboarding hill, complete with a rail on which to grind... a stand for a television antenna, yanked off the side of your neighbors' house. And when you have a foot or more of snow, you don't have to worry about a cooler; instead, all you need to do is half-bury the case of High Life in the snow.
It was important to have fun while we could (like, a lot of fun), because the universe is balance, and sometimes they throw parties up at 27 that aren't the usual pandemonium. When that happens--when people are sitting on their mess of cushions and half-sofas, and other people are stationed behind instruments with the intention of jamming with no end in sight--it's a damn good thing you have a lot of animosity toward Hillary Clinton, so you can get into a smack-down argument about the kind of campaign she's running, and in doing so, at least entertain yourself.
Here are the politics in play: Kathleen looks at least slightly uncomfortable; Mike stares from behind the drum's symbols at the back of her red head as she sits in one chair next to Bro, perched in the other. Their heads don't move, their mouths don't open except to sip their drinks, Kathleen's eyes drift like she'd like to be dancing. When Mike finishes his drumming, he drags Tom into his bedroom so Tom can listen to his mlerin EP on the computer and provide feedback: "Hey man, we should have parties like this more often, eh? Where we can just sit around and play music notes in scales, eh?"
We all have reasons to feel sorry for ourselves; sure, we all need to let those emotions out. That's what blogs are for. The reason we read blogs is to understand that we aren't the only people we know who hate ourselves.
This week is a scramble to Thursday. Thursday is a shit show. Friday is for traveling South. Next week is in the air. Then it's another month of scrambling, but with no source of income. Then the finish line comes and then it's a shit show and then it's back to being Mayberry and it's almost been a whole four years and there's a foot of snow on the ground but it looks like it's starting to melt and a little bit of milk and some condiments in the fridge and someone has to do all these dishes; I think I'm going to order a pizza.