weekends
Some days, you just can't do much other than meet Robert DeNiro, write monologues about the wonders of boys from New Jersey, and do your laundry. When you come home from a starstrikey day at the old office, your music nicely Xeroxed for tomorrow's recording with Shetler, you babble with Boss, who's spent most of the weekend with a first-year, Metro. Metro was your adopted first-year before he even got in: you brought him to the end of the year parties when he was at the school for his interview, and made him pre-cool.
Now that he's snagged a second year, he's ultra-cool.
His best friend, Vegas, snagged Daisy D. for a split-second, but lost it in his lovey-dovey grip of death. Don't you just hate that? One minute, you're swooning, and the next, you're insane. On the recieving end, it's like, anything to get me away from that maniac! On the maniac end, it's nothing but torture and pain, wondering why it is that your affection so outdoes the object of it.
Friday was spent getting to know these cats, for real, by being That Creepy Second Year. I headed up the "Let's Go Second Years!" cheer to get our homebody butts off the barstools at Our Bar and into bumfuck Brooklyn. Bumfuck Brooklyn was the locale of the first-years first Par-TAaAAAY, and I had Saturday in the clear. I was fucking going. I was fucking going, and I was fucking dragging the whole brigade along.
An hour and many deep-actor-type conversations later, first-year Kiwi, Ms. Boss, Swank, Vegas, first-year Miranda and I are all gathered round a pile of cards, and cups full of potent jungle juice. Swank is speaking Spanish to the next door neighbors who've arrived with a vat of tequila. I'm still in my school day clothes, I have a blemish growing under the hat covering my dirty hair, and later in the evening, I'm on the rooftop spouting Shakespeare to the city. Kiwi turns to me, under that incredible sky, and finishes his speech with a mouth full of New Zealand:
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
And I decided it was pretty much an awesome night.
Now that he's snagged a second year, he's ultra-cool.
His best friend, Vegas, snagged Daisy D. for a split-second, but lost it in his lovey-dovey grip of death. Don't you just hate that? One minute, you're swooning, and the next, you're insane. On the recieving end, it's like, anything to get me away from that maniac! On the maniac end, it's nothing but torture and pain, wondering why it is that your affection so outdoes the object of it.
Friday was spent getting to know these cats, for real, by being That Creepy Second Year. I headed up the "Let's Go Second Years!" cheer to get our homebody butts off the barstools at Our Bar and into bumfuck Brooklyn. Bumfuck Brooklyn was the locale of the first-years first Par-TAaAAAY, and I had Saturday in the clear. I was fucking going. I was fucking going, and I was fucking dragging the whole brigade along.
An hour and many deep-actor-type conversations later, first-year Kiwi, Ms. Boss, Swank, Vegas, first-year Miranda and I are all gathered round a pile of cards, and cups full of potent jungle juice. Swank is speaking Spanish to the next door neighbors who've arrived with a vat of tequila. I'm still in my school day clothes, I have a blemish growing under the hat covering my dirty hair, and later in the evening, I'm on the rooftop spouting Shakespeare to the city. Kiwi turns to me, under that incredible sky, and finishes his speech with a mouth full of New Zealand:
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
And I decided it was pretty much an awesome night.
posted by Maggie Moon at
8:18 PM
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