Aaron's List Film: The Day After Tomorrow Game: Beyond Good and Evil Music: Alkaline Trio- My Friend Peter Text: Nothing Activity: Finally just chilling Anticipating: We'll see
Brandon's List Film: Old cartoons on Boomarang Game: Bicycle Music: Yazo-Only You Text: Lamb, again, maybe Activity: Nothing too exciting Anticipating: September 6th
beautiful narcissus
Aaron was the adorable result of an unconventional relationship between a ninja and a rare giant krayt dragon... and a butterfly. It is rumored that along with being crafty, extremely agile, and having a venomous sting, he believes that he too, like a certain R. Kelly, can fly.
Brandon wandered into Something Like Tripe in a drunken stupor one night and when he sobered up decided that it was a nice place and never went back home. His history is a mystery to all who know him, and in fact the years of hard living have made his history a mystery to himself as well.
Note: This is a fairly rough count, which only counts once for each post, no matter how many times a single post might mention one of the above mentioned topics. So really, we are far more pathetic than these counters might lead you to believe. Hard to fathom, yes, I know.
Also: Brandon explains the menstruation with, "I think it hits you harder as you grow up. You realize that whenever you get pissed at a chick, it's usually 'cause of that." He then proceeded to exclaim, "WOW. God dammit, man," at something disgusting that I said.
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Life is full of cruel jokes, but none so dastardly as the sexual headache, which is quite the opposite of sexual healing and, in fact, something of an understatement. It would be better called the sexual "as close to death as you can get without actually dying" or the sexual "feels like getting your brain fed through a rusty garbage disposal unit." The irony is rife with the sexual headache, an excruciating migraine that sets in at about the moment of orgasm and continues on for, well, anywhere from 24 to 48 hours. Although some studies have shown it is capable of lasting for up to four days. All you women complaining about bleeding and cramping need to shut the hell up because at least your central nervous system isn't being assaulted by what feels like a glass Tilt-O-Whirl. Granted, the worst is over in about 8 hours. After that it loses its paralyzing quality and refrains from being so bad that I actually considered ending my life just in order to stop the pain. Then for about 7 hours it's about the worst regular migraine you've ever had. After that it's a nagging, gently throbbing headache. Now, in the grand scheme of things, that's not so bad but still, nobody wakes up in the morning with a headache and says, "Oh, I have a headache. Fucking cool!"
One might argue that impotence is the biggest damper on sexual enjoyment but I would contest that no, the sexual headache beats it by a long shot. You would think that impotence would tease you more, since it’s all like, “Nya, hah. You can’t even have sex!†But the sexual headache is so much more malicious than that. He’ll prance around you, laughing, pointing, bringing all his friends over to share in his torturous cackling, jeering, “Yeah, I’m going to let you have sex. And it’s gonna be good, it’s gonna be real good! Oh! Oh! You’re close! Here it comes! And then BLIZOW! That’s right! I just hit you in the face with a DUMP TRUCK! You know how much one of those bastards weighs? No! No, you don’t know anything anymore because your brain is exploding!â€
I can with full confidence say that the sexual headache is the worst pain I have ever felt in my entire life, and that's saying something as I have endured some serious pain during the course of my various misadventures. One would think that breaking a bone, getting a staple put through my ear, or getting electrocuted by a taser would all outmatch the sexual headache. This is far from the case, sadly. The sexual headache takes the title with room to spare for both intensity and longevity. I seriously thought I might have been having a stroke or an aneurysm, but after some research, discovered that this problem was not that uncommon. However, lest I remind you, just because something is common does not mean it is not still bad. Let me bring forward cancer, AIDS, and hip hop music as examples.
On the bright side, there is no cure to this malady; however, some relief can be achieved by prescription migraine medications and my favorite option, abstinence. Words fail me at this point. All I can do is thrust my hands into the sky and scream, "WHY? WHY THIS?" Nobody deserves this, nobody. Torture is one thing, but the sexual headache is a whole league of miserable suffering. All I can do is ask Justice what I could have possibly done to deserve this. All things considered, I'm a pretty clean guy so I'd love to see what kind of dish they serve to murderers, rapists, and hip hop artists.
It’s a gift I have. Selling gas, that is. It’s not a skill that can be taught, I’ll have you know. There are a few select people in this world who are just made, crafted, for selling gasoline to the SUV drivers, the truckers, the soccer moms who are usually SUV drivers, but sometimes minivan drivers. Them too. The minivan drivers, the hot rodsters, the street racers, the highschoolers pretending to be street racers. You wouldn’t think that selling gas would even be an issue really, it wouldn’t be a necessary action. Well, of course, selling gas is, but not selling it, you know? You have no idea. I’m a gas station attendant, not a writer, for Christ’s sake. Allow me to better articulate. When somebody thinks of selling gas, they don’t think of it as the same way as a door to door salesman sells lifetime supplies of glass eye lubricant. You don’t have to convince anybody that there is a .00051 percent chance that they could lose their eye and will need this lubricant in order to slip their new, shiny piece of face jewelry into their skull every day when they wake up when it comes to gasoline. You don’t have to tell them that they need gas. They know they need gas. They come to you, right? Sure. You might think that. But you also might not be a gas station attendant. I am. So I know.
Selling gas is no easy task, let me tell you. But I’ve got this gift, like I said. I can read people. I know what they want. They want a smiling face and a sparkle in your eye, your real eye. They want you to tell them that they’re making the right choice. Did I tell you about the guy who was just here a minute ago? Don’t say “yes†just because you don’t want to hear the story, because I’m going to tell it anyway and you would just end up looking rude. And nobody wants that. I wouldn’t even have to be a talented salesperson to know that.
A forest green Volkswagen Jetta pulled up to the 5th pump. A few smudges adorn its forest green paint job. A scratch graces the left fender. A small dent soaks up the sun on the end of the hood. Pollen rolls off the back windshield, revealing, “HELP!†written by a young child’s fingers. It idles for a second and then the engine stops pumping completely. The whole car sinks a little bit, finally relaxing after all that hard work. It breathes a sigh of relief, a sigh that is ultimately in vain because like any beast of burden it will be worked until it’s sighed its last. Horses get shot between the eyes with a shotgun, point blank, and turned into the glue that holds that macaroni necklace hanging around your neck that your little girl made at kindergarten today together. Cars aren’t so different. Well, I mean, they are. They don’t have nipples. Horses have nipples because they’re mammals. Cars aren’t mammals. They’re metal. They’re plastic. When they die they get chopped up and rendered into more metal and plastic. Weird. Such is the story of the forest green Volkswagen Jetta. I suppose it might as well soak up these few moments of relief while it still can.
How did I know it was a Jetta and not a Passat? Well, truth be told, you don’t see too many Passats on the road that much anymore. Was it five years ago? No, it had to be more than that. Maybe it was ten years ago. Isn’t it a drag growing old? Your whole life quickly turns into a three-page pamphlet. Years don’t matter anymore; they all mesh together. They’re all the same. You were working at a bagel place last year. You’re working at a gas station now. Minute details that all fade to gray smudges in the margins of your life’s pamphlet. Anyway, as I was saying. About ten years ago I was witness to the Passat for the first time when my best friend’s parents bought one. I believe it was forest green, too. It was a popular color. Still is, for that matter. But like I said, that was a long time ago. Maybe eight years ago, so two years after that, my dad purchased a Jetta. The Jetta was basically the next year’s edition of the Passat, with a pretty new name so people thought it was a new car worth buying. Maybe a Passat blew up somewhere and burned a happy, smiling family alive inside of it and people couldn’t trust the Passat name anymore. Who knows. Passats are now Jettas. Just like fags are now “homosexuals†and pretty boys are “metrosexuals†and everybody’s some kind of sexual when the truth is we’re all just confused. You can gild something to the hilt if you want but underneath it’s all the same. You can wear a retro t-shirt but you’re not from the seventies. You’re a slave to fashion. You listen to the magazine ads, even though magazines don’t talk. Perhaps in the future they will, but that’s neither here nor there.
So that’s why you don’t see very many Passats anymore. They’re all Jettas. Actually, I guess you probably see a lot of Passats, since you see a lot of Jettas, and they’re all the same anyway. Cars are really weird. You notice these things when they’re very closely related to your field of business. Gasoline and automobiles are like fast food and human beings. Both consume mass quantities of their respective poisons. See, fast food is full of all the bad things that humans shouldn’t be eating, like diseased rats and whatever else fell into the meat grinder. Similarly, cars probably shouldn’t be consuming gasoline. Now, I’m no mechanic, but why would you want to put something inside your body that causes thousands of small explosions in your chest cavity? That just doesn’t sound healthy to me.
A slightly stout, business class man pops out of this forest green Jetta, his face quite red and damp from sweat. The air conditioning might make his vehicle’s interior comfortably cool, but that doesn’t stop the anger boiling inside of him from manifesting itself on his forehead in the form of a tidal wave of droplets of perspiration. He stands there, breathing heavily, huffing you might say, and a single drop rolls down the side of his face, rejuvenating the dried up canyons long ago formed on his cheek from a time when he knew how to laugh. I saunter over to this man, seconds away from frothing at the mouth and spitting napalm, rest my hand on his forest green Jetta and give it a single, hearty spank.
“You need gas,†I mention.
The man’s eyes make contact with my pupils and burn into the back of my head with their laser precision and epicenter-of-a-nuclear-meltdown intensity. I believe I can hear a hot kettle boiling over. A sharp whistling rings in my ears and finally musters the strength to grunt, “What? What! Don’t you think I know that! What are you some kind of expert on gasoline…you…you…†He squints fervently as if his eyes are lifting eighty pound weights when really they’re just trying to make out my name on tag fastened to my shirt’s pocket.
“Maurice,†I say casually.
“Right. Maurice,†he fumbles, “Don’t you think I know that!†He asks me questions but without the question marks. He shouts at me without the balls.
“I just happened to notice that your tank is almost empty,†I motion to his dashboard and give him a reassuring raise of the eyebrows. Someday all that eyebrow raising of mine will result in parched canyons across the front of my face, waiting to be replenished with the waters of some vicious argument with a soon-to-be ex-wife or frustration with the amount of hyphens already present in these few pages. I hadn’t actually noticed that his tank was almost empty. But as it turns out, most of the time when people stop next to a gas pump, they need gas. Funny how it works like that.
“You could see my dashboard from over there?†He motions to the doorway of the gas station where I was standing when the forest green Jetta pulled in, but without the reassuring eyebrows. That’s all right. He has enough canyons as it is. This is a man who worries about everything and nothing. This is America, ladies and gentlemen. This is you and I.
I smile with one side of my mouth, “I don’t need glasses.†I grab the green handle from the pump. “Regular?†He nods. My eyebrows raise. Up and down. I insert the nozzle deftly into the Jetta’s forest green cavity. I pull the lever and liquid gold starts pouring, filling the warm canal with thick, lively fluid. I smile with the other side of my mouth now and rest my hand on the man’s shoulder. His shirt is slightly damp from the sweat of the morning’s commute. I give it a single, hearty spank and swagger back inside.
A drop of sweat falls off the man’s eyebrow and lands on his cheek. He brushes it off and some of the muscles in his jaw relax. He breathes a sigh of relief. I suppose he might as well soak up these few moments of relief while he still can.
Selling gasoline, it’s a gift. What did I tell you? It’s not just about the gas, folks. It’s about making somebody’s day that much better. It’s about getting them to buy that pack of cigarettes that they’re trying to stop smoking because cigarettes are charring their lungs and birthing little tumors in the bubbly pockets that oxygen tries to live. It’s about getting them to buy that cup of green mountain coffee that they don’t need since they already drank a cup at home, which they also didn’t need since coffee is slowly rotting their stomach lining and probably contributing to that ulcer they’ve been working on for the past three years of their professional life. Everything causes cancer if you consume enough of it; some things are just better at it than others.
Selling gas is like selling cancer. Cancer is an evil thing. It gets under your skin, or prostate, or colon, or whatever else that can get cancer these days, and grows. It sets up shop, brings in all its friends, tuberculosis, pneumonia, the whole gang. It kills you. Gasoline is not so different. It becomes an addition, like the cigarettes, you need gas. It gets under your skin. The price of gasoline is an evil thing. Are we Satan’s servants or are we just trying to make enough money to afford gas for next week?
I drink water. I’m drinking water right now in fact, sitting here at the desk of the gas station, paging through a magazine, trying not to listen to the ads even though they’re not actually saying anything. You think a lot about a lot of things when you sit at a desk for eight hours a day, doing essentially nothing. You, or I rather, think about why I’m drinking this water. I’m on something I call “the water programâ€. Water is the essence of life, or so they tell us. Supposedly, water makes up 70 percent of our bodies. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d like to think that I’m made up of more than just water, such as charm and a dash of wit. However, water cleans you out of all those nasty toxins you ingest every day. The fast food, you know. The coffee. Wit and charm can cover up a lot of personal flaws, but sadly, wit and charm can’t disguise the coffee stains on your otherwise perfectly orthodontured teeth. I’m trying to make up for the four years I drank coffee. I talk about it like the Dark Ages. Coffee ran over those four years, soaking them in dark brown, staining them thoroughly with the smell of burned caffeine. I’ve been trying to wash those stains out with lots of water. Gallons of it. When people ask me why I don’t drink coffee, I tell them that I just don’t like the taste. Truth is, I don’t. It tastes like, well, shit. Not literally, although I wouldn’t know for sure, I’ve never tasted shit. Though it really wouldn’t surprise me if shit did, in fact, harbor the taste of coffee. Tasty Green Mountain coffee. That’s the part I don’t tell people. I don’t drink coffee because I know it’s actually two parts charcoal, five parts stale water. Dogs drink better than this. It’s true really. At least at my house.
Isn't it weird how for the first 12 years of your scholastic experience you looked forward to summer vacation with such inflamed zeal? For months ahead of time you would count down the days until you would finally be free of any kind of responsibility or learning. If you got out the 17th of June this year but got out the 16th last year, it would be a source of great agony, cause for much complaint and shouts of "Injustice! Outrage!" I say that this is all so weird since the minute you cross over to the land of college, and by that I mean the land of drunken weekends and lots of thong clad easy girls, the end seems to come faster than it ever did before, unfortunately, you don't want to leave anymore. How could summer vacation possibly compare to living alone with all of your friends and partying whenever you want? See, that's a rhetorical question since obviously we all know the answer. Staying at home everyday, working miserable hours while the weather outside is beautiful, and constantly answering your parents is surely preferable to any kind of freedom you experienced in college. It's not like you actually liked hooking up with random girls who never even expected you to call them back.
I don't want to sugarcoat college too much though. There are certainly some bad points. Like class, for example. That's pretty much the only one actually, except for the one inevitable horror that your subconscious feared for months before you came. Who will I be living with? Fortunately, you and your roommate ended up getting along just fine, who knows, maybe you have sex with each other. But you are not in the clear yet my friend! You think I am kidding... but soon you will see just how kidding I am.
The most dangerous of all housing threats doesn't come from the bed across the room or vertically stacked above yours. It comes from the sky. Believe it or not, your dorm building is about seven thousand stories, and that means, there is always somebody living above you. And you might not know this, but the college residence hall code was established with certain guidelines to maintain some sort of order when organizing the floors of a dorm building.
First, did you know that dorm buildings are a distinct reality from the outside world and therefore have a different set of rules of physics? That's right. In residence halls, like heat, gravity rises. The bottom floor being Earth, the top being a clusterfuck of blackholes. Ironically enough, the residence hall code also states that the residents on each floor must weigh more than the residents on the floor below them. This is of course, weight in Earth terms. So it will often turn out that you'll have not even just one, but two 900-pound, lumbering behemoths with massive feet full of sand living above you, stomping around, jogging in place, breakdancing, and doing bellyflops off the desk onto the floor. They'll probably also spend a good deal of time just jumping up and down for no reason at all. Maybe they're playing jump rope. Maybe it's Skip-It. You'll never know, since you can't go up to the next floor to find out and tell them to stop hopping around like a bunch of cracked out retards since your feeble human body can't support the force of the gravity there.
A corollary to the gravity rule is that each day at 6 AM you are required to drop something heavy and awkwardly shaped so it rolls around a little bit. For those of you doing the dropping, this may seem like a wasted effort, but the people living below you will certainly reap the benefits of having their ceilings gradually cave in while they're sleeping. Some suggested items for dropping include: a sack of bowling balls, a dump truck, Shaquille O'Neal, your monthly food supply, your fat roommate, yourself, the entire world, or any of the other inner planets. Before doing this though, make sure to call any of the planets you plan on dropping that day and make sure they've gotten their most recent shipment of cinder blocks and lead weights.
You should rearrange your room every day to keep the place looking fresh and also to unearth the festering box of Ring Dings you dropped under your bed when you were eating while you were sleeping in order to maintain your glorious girth. While rearranging, try to figure out the best new arrangment by pushing the largest, heaviest objects of furniture back and forth across the floor at least several hundred times. I mean, you want to make sure the new layout is going to work for you, right? When you're done with that stage, it's time to start actually moving furniture. Do this by either throwing it across the room or standing on a ladder and dropping it into place. Don't forget your sack of bowling balls, either!
Spend a good portion of every day screaming at the top of your lungs.
Don't go to class. Don't even go out to eat. Order in, that's why God invented delivery services. Stay in your room for the entirety of the year. We wouldn't want those suckers living below you to get a good night's sleep now would we? Have you screamed yet today?
Friends are only allowed to visit past 3 in the morning, and they all must carry megaphones. It's disturbing and disruptive to have to have people repeat themselves during conversation, so it's best to say everything as loudly as possible, into the megaphone, and this includes laughing and your designated screaming. Maybe your friends can even help you rearrange your room? Or you guys can play catch with wheelbarrows full of cement. The fun thing about this version of catch is that you don't actually catch anything at all, you just throw it at the floor dozens of times! Boy that does sound fun!
When you guys get tired of that game, maybe watch your DVD of "World's Loudest Car and Train Crashes Caught On Tape!" for the five thousanth time. Those ear splitting screams and the way the cars flipping over each other simultaneously exploding numerous times just never gets old. And when you shout in excitement, be sure to have your megaphones on. Don't get sloppy now.
You're only allowed to listen to one song for a month at a time, so choose wisely. The residence hall code suggests something with a strong bass beat that sounds exactly like the song you choose last month. Make sure you have a rock concert quality sound system in your room, and face all the speakers and subwoofers towards the floor. Now, it's going to be hard for you to hear the music properly this way, so you're going to have to raise the volume pretty high. I'm sure you won't mind.
Whenever you shut your door, pretend that the Grim Reaper is on the other side and he's only scared by slamming doors. So slam that fucking door, man! You don't want to die!it again though, just to check if he went away. Oh no! He's still there! You'd better slam it again! This is a game you can, and probably will, play all day.
Now, the residence hall code is of course much more extensive than this, with numerous intricacies such as the fact that it's only permissible to shower or flush the toilet once the people below you have gone to sleep so that the pipes that run through their walls that travel to hundreds of exotic locales rattle enough that they remember that they too, in fact, have to go to the bathroom. Living in a dorm is hard, kids. It's about making sacrifices for the good of the community. You might be tired of throwing bricks into the air and watching them fall to the floor, but you know that if everybody took that kind of attitude, the residence hall community would be in shambles. So suck it up and start shouting into that megaphone, because that's what college is all about: irritating the people you live with as much as humanely possible.
I hate you. And you know why? Because you're sleeping. Look at you, asleep. Oh so peaceful. I bet your bed is really comfortable, too. You might just lay there all day. And the funniest thing is, you can. And that is why I hate you.
It is a very weird feeling walking across the damp campus at 7:53 in the morning when you're the only one awake. I saw nobody except for one lonely facilities' golf truck drive by. The whole campus was still sleeping. What a fucking asshole. Do you know why everybody is sleeping? Because we have the day off! No classes! Sleep in everybody! Unless you work for the student computer lab, where students can go to use the computers. These are the same students who are sleeping. They're not in the computer lab. The computer lab should be sleeping too!
I saw one person as I approached the lab, and I hated her. She was running. Go inside, sleep, and get fat you unappreciative bitch! If there's one thing I despise more than anything else it's people who don't take full advantage of the luxury of sleep. Some people are not so lucky. Namely, me. I don't care about anybody else.
Let's play a game. Let's play the game where we live in a universe where Fridays are actually Wednesdays, that way, it wouldn't have been that long since I last updated. My word, games are fun!
It's hard to believe that my freshman year in college is almost over. Looking back, I remember thinking that I had so much time, so now it truly amazes me that I managed to learn so very little. That's not entirely true. I think I've figured out this college shit pretty well, I mean, I know exactly what it takes for me to throw up and I usually test this theory twice a week just to make sure I'm right. Okay, it has less to do with me wanting to be sure that I'm right and more to do with me wanting to get TOTALLY FUCKED UP MAN, YEAH! COLLEGE RULES EVERYBODY ELSE DROOLS!
Anyway, reflecting back on my first year of college has caused me to think of all the many things I've learned in my many experiences here which include but are not limited to: playing a lot of video games, drinking Mountain Dew for breakfast, rarely sleeping, having sex with my best friend (both male and female), and...hm... I'm sure there's more. Actually, maybe not.
One thing that college taught me is that eating three meals is still of the upmost importance; however, in college you do not eat these meals when the rest of the civilized world does. You'll eat breakfast at 2, lunch at 6, and dinner at midnight or so. Dinner will consist of pizza, Chinese, or beer. If all else fails, you can always find a square meal in a box of Pop Tarts.
In college, I found that money is essentially meaningless and yet the most important thing there is. For example, I paid 100 dollars for a book I never read and then sold back for $12. This did not bother me, but it did when I lost my two dollar subway card. Life is all about priorities people, and I God damn needed that subway ride, but I could have done fine without 88 bucks.
Another thing that happens in college is that you lose all grasp on common sense. Let's take a look at the previous example for proof. Losing 88 dollars did not faze me but losing a two dollar subway card did despite the fact that I could have bought 44 more subway cards with that money. I will also note that I was totally psyched to receive $12 for my und book, acting like I just found that money in the couch cushions. I remember paging through the 12 singles, smelling them and rubbing them on my face. Then I remember everybody looking at me like I was some sort of circus animal. It didn't help that while I was paying attention to my newfound riches I had accidentally walked into a cage marked "Circus Animal."
When drinking until you are rendered blind, it is still possible to tell the time of day based on the noise levels in your hall. For example, if it is silent, it is probably noon on a Saturday. If it is cacophanous, then it is about 3 AM on any day of the week.
College cafeterias are amazing systems that are able to cook one meal at the beginning of the week and then recycle it into dozens of various reincarnations throughout the week. Monday morning you might eat homefries for breakfast, and then later that day you'll come back to the cafeteria and you'll have french fries... that look just like homefries. Chicken patties will find themselves turned into chicken nuggets, then spicy chicken strips, then little chunks of chicken lavishly decorating a bowl of salad. And of course, at the end of the week, everything gets turned into Tacos or Jamaican Beef Patties.
In college, one reverts to a childlike state. Your 18 or 19 years of growth and maturing will mean nothing after a week at your university of choice. You will begin napping again, and in fact, you will soon find that the majority of your time is spent sleeping, eating shitty food, throwing up, and shitting.
Doing laundry may be the devil, but Fabreeze is the second coming of Christ.
Showering may be the devil, but not showering is the other second coming of Christ.
Your room will be colder during the Spring than it is all Winter. If there's one thing all colleges can do extremely well, it's creating realistic reenactments of Holocaust conditions. I guess they figure people are less apt to complain that it's too hot if it's so hot that they all died.
As a college student, it is absolutely mandatory to wear sandals at all time. This includes while showering, but you would probably want to do that even if it wasn't a rule. Nothing says "I'm a stereotypical college student" more than a pair of Birkenstocks. Sacrificing a few toes to frostbite is totally worth the comforting knowledge that everybody will know you're actually a college student. Oh, and make sure you tell everybody that you listen to Dave Matthews Band. God knows, just being on a college campus, living in a college residence hall, and attending class is no kind of proof that you actually attend that university. Well... actually that's sort of true. My dad learned a lot in that one semester when he lived in the library and went to all the classes that sounded interesting to him. It wasn't his fault the dean looked like she could have been a senior.
Meeting girls becomes both drastically easier and infinitely harder in college. You will soon find that all you need to get to hook up with a girl is to engage her in conversation for more than 10 minutes, unfortunately, you will also soon find that it's really hard to keep talking to somebody when all you want to do is grab those big, juicy titties and suck on em! Also, you'll find that it's very hard to keep from saying this to them. Let's take a look at a classic scenario.
College Guy: Hey there, nice party, huh? College Girl: Yeah, is it yours? College Guy: Nope. I don't know whose this is, I just heard the noise of loud college kids and assumed that once I found the source of that noise, I would find a source of well stocked beer. Do you know whose party this is? College Girl: I think I had sex with him last week. College Guy: Oh really? College Girl: Chances are good. I had sex with a lot of people last week. College Guy: I like your boobs. *starts mauling them like a hungry bear* College Girl: Ew, like totally gross! I'm going to go make out with one of my girl friends so guys pay us money.
A better way to score chicks is to avoid that whole "talking to them" rigamaroll by playing an acoustic guitar. Buy a guitar, learn one song, and spend all day sitting out on the quad playing it. There will be somebody, if not numerous people, who think you're "such a good guitar player, Mike, and I don't even care that you're balding at the age of 19 *starts caressing Mike's shoulders and back*"
You're not a college student if you don't start paving the deadly road of alcoholism early on. However, you don't want people thinking you're a light weight or even worse, a "two beer queer", so it's important to build up your tolerance. Try starting off with easier to swallow, lower alcohol content drinks such as wine coolers and 151 grain alcohol. After the appropriate amount of training you can start drinking several pitchers of beer that is actually just water that tastes terrible in one sitting and get obscenely obese. Or you can move on to hardcore binge drinking, such as taking numerous shots within the shortest amount of time. Shots are something for really awesome college students, better known as "fucking idiots." Also, if anybody is wondering, I am a fucking idiot. When you find yourself dancing on the table of the bar, waving your penis around like a very small fire hose screaming "THERE'S A FIRE IN MY PANTS AND I HAVE TO PUT IT OUT!" don't become self conscious when you notice everybody gawking at you like you're some kind of circus animal. They're either in awe of how completely cool you are or you were too drunk to notice that you had walked into the cage marked "Circus Animal".
Playing pranks is an essential part of college life. Classics such as putting shaving cream in your roommate's hand and then tickling his nose, and drawing penises on his forehead with a permanent marker are still great options, but now that you're in college you have lots of time to be a little more adventurous. One of my personal favorite pranks is to slip drugs into girls' drinks when they're not looking, bring them back to my room, and have sex with them when they fall asleep.
Speaking of which, the best thing about college is that it's a time for experimenting, in all areas, but particularly sexual. Academic experimentation is of course very common in college as well, for example, you will find yourself desperately attempting to prove the hypothesis that "I can go to only the first class of all of my courses and the finals, and still pass." But as for the sexual angle, if you would like to see what exactly I mean, feel free to email me and I can show you.
Note to self: pick up some more roofies.
Of course, college is also full of that little thing called "class" but you don't really have to worry about it most of the time. The one guideline that I learned to always follow is that when a teacher asks the class a question it is essentially suicide to answer it. Give the teacher no way of knowing who you are. If you answer his questions, he will know you and therefore have a reason to grade you with more scrutiny on the next paper. You're fucked if you answer the question wrong, and you're even more fucked if you answer it right. Wrong answer, and he'll think you're a moronic piece of turd and instantly give you a C- on everything without reading it. Right answer, and he'll think you're some sort of child genius and read everything like it's a scientific symposium, quickly finding out that it's not, and giving you a C- because you're "capable of much better." See, this is why it's better to just not go to class at all.
In retrospect, I truly have learned a lot in college thus far. My first year has been fulfilling and a lot of fun, and I look forward to the remaining 6. You can get a lot out of college, most notably herpes, so play the field and chalk up those experience points otherwise you'll never level up and you won't have enough HP to last you through next year's curriculum. I really have been playing too many video games.
