New - Old - Profile - Guestbook - Notes - Design - Host The Swan Song (if by "Swan Song" I mean "probably not") 2003-05-20 So the only thing more random than these past few diary entries is the food Brett and I have left in the house. This includes (and is completely limited to) lasagna noodles, baba ghannouge, marshmallow fluff, a can of refried beans, nayonaise (the vegan alternative to mayo), and a whole messa’ bulgher wheat. In other words, pretty f’n random. So we returned home from our pilgrimage Friday night, having decided that the difference between messenger pants and capris must also be the difference between an ascot and a scarf. And really, what would my life be without waiting until 11 p.m. the night before its due to write something. And hence my Baccalaureate speech was born. Granted, it is by no means earth shattering, but listening to an hour and a half of saccharin fluff speeches from 14 of my peers, I looked more like Martin Luther King, Jr. (only thinner of course). During the entirety of commencement weekend, my newly shorn head received mixed reviews. Anne Ferry told me it the head really showcases my eyebrows (that Anne always knows just what to say). Dean Taber, bless his soul, asked me if everything was OK. Big Shar threw a fit and refused to talk to me at the Phi Beta Kappa induction and for the greater extent of the day; I consequently told her she was acting like a bitch and inadvertently dropped the f bomb once or twice. Following this she was fine, proving that she knows not to mess with a hardcore bad ass like myself. Perhaps this should suggest I take a new approach with mother. After dinner with Sarah’s family (even Grandma Becky – sans the crushed velvet), we returned for our last night together at 562 W. Chestnut. Here, we found ourselves watching “Brett – the early years” the video of which her parents kindly brought down. You see, while she may not eat it now, our Bretty was quite the ham as a child. Apparently an afroed and spectacled Brett (with sister Tal) donned “costumes” which Brett would probably refer to as “clothes,” and danced, sang ballads such as “Smell my stinky feet” and watched on as a 1-year old cousin chugged a can of beer. Here is where all of the pieces start to fit together… And then I was sad. Sunday I graduated from college in a structure which 99.4% of students refer to as “The Ass-fuck.” Charming indeed. Fast-forward through a 3-hour ceremony, some photos with Nan Rita who insists upon screaming “sex” instead of “cheese,” a trip to Miller’s Smorgasbord where my father devoured prime rib while sitting across from Bretty, and some hysterical wailing by Sarah who likes my family more than I do (or at least will miss the extra cash at Easter time). And then she left… And that’s it. Here ends this chapter of chapters (if by “chapter” I mean “could I get fired for this?”). And so I might take a respite from this wee tale. Who knew I’d even last this long, and who said I was afraid of commitment? Oh wait, I say that. And as I say peace out to college life, I bid farewell to you too, diary possums. (Realizing that I’ll probably post in a few days and this is all to build up the melodrama – after all, who am I to deprive the readers?) ----------------------------------------- With the Olsen's turning 17 in just two weeks, is anyone's breath as baited as mine own? - 2003-05-29 |