Twenty and Done

I haven’t been here in what seems like ages. However, I am currently seventeen days away from the legal drinking age, or at least that’s what Brett Favre is telling me. Hooray for jersey countdowns! But let’s go from the top.

School is not doing me many favors. In fact, the more I sit and ponder about my coursework, the more I ask “what the fuck did I do to deserve this? Seconds later, I realized that I did it to myself. Go figure.

Brienna and I are essentially dead, or at least that is how it seems. I wanted more, she wants less, next thing you know, I’m reading an identical email from Skylar’s ex-flame. If experience has taught me one thing, it’s bad emails always have the same vibe. However, I think I get points for being judged in mine. I tried to dance with her at the Social Dance party, but it wasn’t to be. I have pictures I’d like to tag her in, but my 396th friend wants nothing to do with me. Am I sad? More along the lines of disappointment. Is there something to possibly help mend these wounds?

Two weeks ago, the Salsa Anniversary party was held. It was great…lots of pictures, lots of dancing, and the seduction of a woman ten years my senior. Yep. Not sure how it happened, besides the fact that she thought I was a nice guy for teaching her the salsa basics in an advanced setting. I nearly chickened out, but freaking Skylar was there to cut me off at the pass, forcing me to get her number…and her name. That has been roughly the high point of my year, and quite possibly my life. I intend to proceed with relaxed caution. If I succeed here…well, I would have succeeded on a grand scale, like every other success. Speaking of successes…

Two nights ago, the Social Dance party commenced, and your flawed tragic cocksure hero, me, was present. I concocted a visual image that will probably be remembered as the singular epic image of the Godhand: black blazer with a skull, white shirt/pants/shoes/sleeves/glasses, ornamented by a craptacular wig and the classic white Intercontinental Title. I brought the house down, despite going hoarse and possibly straining a bicep. Since I was not able to lead the line dances at my usual vigor, I laid down a special challenge:

The Flamboyant Metrosexual Salsa Battle.

Basically, I teamed with another guy to take on another two guys in a historic danceoff. I will not hesitate in saying that it was by far the signature event at the party. There is nothing we did not do, and lines were crossed. I did this all while being blind and enduring a potentially torn bicep. I have no regrets, and if I stayed with this mindset until I become Tim Duncan, I’ll be satisfied. Well, not quite…I’m going cougar hunting…

Next time you see me, hopefully it will be more than a belt I hoist over my head. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Kid Rock “So Hott”