He wants to be recognized, to participate in a ritual. That is the only way he understands success. He is in San Juan or Key West or Senor Frogs or some cookie-cutter Debauchery Enclave.He is going to Groove Cruise and Holy Ship, literally exceeding the domestic capacity for his bro requirements. He needs another country to sustain his biological need to be awful. He is wearing rosary beads, loving his grandmother, keeping a prayer card in his room somewhere, feeling passionately about State College athletics, going HAM on jet skis, having some vague job at a company that is named VERITAS FINANCIAL or CENTURION. He is trips to Cancun, apps at the Cheesecake Factory, theme parties in off-campus apartments, tailgating, quoting Will Ferrell movies, drinking shitty light beers that he can disparage for being shitty, but feels proud because he drank it anyway. He is at the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, at Santacon, at happy hour on Cinco De Mayo, in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. He owns more hoodies than books, more hoodies than there are torsos in the entire universe. He is pre-gaming in the hotel room, believing in the concept of pre-gaming in the first place, unbuttoning his shirt and popping his collar at the casino. He is howling from a megaphone that there is nothing that can contain him, while simultaneously tiptoeing along a rigid standard of COOL.
Posted on: Thu, 22 Jan 2015 09:47:24 +0000
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