It's Something Like That
Ah, mi. Where to begin, teeming throng that is my audience? If you're looking for a lesson both in irony and my love life, I've a short story I'd probably be willing to tell to any interested parties; and bonus points, it ends in an upshot as opposed to the usually obligatory downer. I could tell you tales of the red-cup circuit, where the plastic clanks and the glasses clink to the rhythms of the nearest bass beat, and how we've successfully conspired to get certain parties drunk. I could speak of hysterical Thursday nights, and unexpected Friday ones. I could talk of the drunk people, the drunk parties, the dancing, the friends, the gropers, the drama, the commute, the rumors, half-truths, outright lies, and the Random Makeout Club of which so far, only Hilary has yet to join. I could drop some hints like bricks and watch them never get caught, and I could toss them off like bits of crumpled paper to see them caught with swiftest excellency. I could go on about many things, but instead I'll cop out with the ever efficient "college is going really well," and I'm "having a good time."