STARTING TO WRITE THAT ONE PAPER THAT’S DUE TWO WEEKS FROM NOW
Oh man, this semester—this is the semester. The one where you are on top of everything, the one where you get your shit done and you get that GPA up to Law School standards because you know real life is just around the fucking corner. And, sure, it’s still early in the semester, and this paper is for your American Lit Survey course (which is totally for freshman but, hey, gotta pad the GPA. if you’re gonna have a chance at Harvard) and the paper is about American Exceptionalism and you are definitely writing about Walt Whitman because that Leaves of Grass shit is your jam and – you know what – who are you kidding, you got this shit on lock. Old Walt would want you to grab a beer and relax. You’ve been working too damn hard.
Ah, the sweet, sweet nectar of the PBR from that one sports bar that is in between your house and campus. Oh, no one is here yet? That’s okay, it’s early. All of your friends will be here soon. One PBR on a Sunday night alone isn’t depressing – it’s invigorating. Who knows, maybe the bard himself will traipse through the door – would you look at that? Traipse – only Harvard Law types “traipse” and that’s you to a tee.
OK, OK, it’s been three and a half hours and somewhere around ten and a half beers and none of your friends are here yet and that papers actually due in two days, and, goddamnit, there isn’t even any football on tonight – but there is baseball. Wait, why aren’t either of these teams the Yankees? Or the Red Sox? The Royals? Jesus Christ – you’ve had too much – too, too much. OMG, the ghost of George Brett is descending from the television. That hair, that mustache, those pants. But he’s not home run hitting happy Brett, he’s angry Brett, he’s running at you, screaming his head off about pine tar and clobbering the Yankees again and now he’s got you by the collar and just when things are looking bad the Royals score two runs in the bottom of the 12th and why should you care? You’re not from Kansas, you don’t even like baseball, but Brett’s happy now, and so are you, and it’s just you and the bartender and George Brett, clinking long island ice teas as Slugggggrrr waves the KC flag – king of baseball, again.