In accordance to university tradition, I moved into my dorm room last Thursday. I was disappointed that my roommate Jack, the most daring swordsman in the Western Hemisphere, did not engage me in combat. I feel it would have been the start of a wonderful and eternal rivalry.
Jack does have his interesting side. He’s a proponent of the free software movement, which I only heard of the day he told me about it, and I had to Google it. He also smokes an electronic cigarette, with flavors like bubblegum and strawberries. I was embarrassed to admit that I had been using regular cigarettes, with tobacco leaves.
There was a point during the week where I had to wake up early for my class, and Jack was playing that damned game League of Legends. I asked him when he was going to bed, and he told me, “five minutes, max.” I kept my eye on the clock. Fifteen minutes later, Jack got in his bed, and I could feel my blood boiling.
Then I went to a dubstep concert. Mostly I’m used to being invited to the most prestigious balls of the European gentry, complete with carriages and overwhelming senses of entitlement. But this was completely different. I was headbanging with some comrades in arms, and a strange girl joined us. When the song stopped, she said, “Guys, I’m tripping baaaaaaaaaaalls here. So what’s up with you?”
There was also a small spat for the destiny of my soul. I had enrolled in a Post-Colonial Literature class, The professor was British, which was funny because he was telling us how the Empire had subjugated native peoples across the world. I soon found out that it was boring, boring, and idiotically boring. My classmates were complete and utter douche-nozzles who wanted to sound as smart as the professor, and they used loquacious statements to illustrate their points.
After the third class, I had a moment of clarity, and I charged to my adviser’s office, and saved my soul from an eternal damnation of discussing economics, capitalism, and the like. Or a semester’s worth of misery, whatever.