Whiskey Before Class

Did the good boy go bad, a la Rihanna? No, I did not. I’m a big fan of awkward situations, and there are few situations that rival taking a Dr. McCroskey course while loaded with whiskey. I overcame my previous drunk deficiency of talking about American foreign policy, so I feel moderately gifted; however, I now center on the novelty of being inebriated at the time. I don’t intend on making a habit out of what I did, but it provided entertainment since I was installed as the captain of a lackluster group. Out of all the possibilities for groups, I was stuck with the least attractive girls in the course. I smell bullshit, but I’ll retire, due to the fact I will be getting a pleasing grade.

Work is work, but I’d like to find a better job that…well, same old song and dance. But more or less, I want a better direction for the fall. I’m teetering on joining the salsa team, taking 22 units, and er, whatever other option comes up. I liken my situation to Randy Johnson when he won the World Series as a Diamondback. The guy who called the game, probably Joe Buck, said something along the lines of “Randy Johnson on the mound, staring at the batter and his future, wondering how many more times he’ll have this opportunity…” That was poignant, because the guy was old and pitched his ass off to get to the title round. He just won his 300th game this week, and has only one ring. There are people who have done far less than he has, yet have multiple rings. It’s a cruel irony, and that’s where I see myself now.

Part of my introspection hangs on the rediscovery of my past. Through the wonders of the Internet, I see people who I have long forgotten, but somewhat reconnected with because of curiosity. Some have moved on, became more successful; other have drifted away, succumbing to their vices or parenthood. They all have a direction, a life…something that I seek. I can’t necessarily complain about my situation, because I’ve still kept myself in remarkable standing through years of discipline, and all I need is one letter next spring to validate my suffering. Yet I see their pictures, and wonder, how the hell did I end up on a mound trying to beat the Yankees in Game 7 of the World Series?

I don’t even like baseball enough to have that fantasy. If it mentioned that I’ve had a one week hiatus from dancing due to lingering depression, that’d be normal. It’d also be accurate…but baseball metaphors befuddle me. What have I become? Surely, I’m not being greedy; maybe pining for Air Force Amy is a bit much, but I’d take just about any girl as a capable substitute. Next stop, Victorville…and possibly returning to the dance floor to polish the old moveset. Skibbedebebop. Much later.

Current Track – Sick Puppies “You’re Going Down”

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