The essence of my post-thesis existence is like the extended director’s cut of the opening scene in “Bridget Jones’ Diary” (Shut up. I can hear you laughing). You know the scene (I said stop laughing) where Bridget is getting hammered and dancing around to “All by Myself” in her pajamas? That’s sort of what my life has been like for the past week (stop it). I’ve been getting drunk on a regular basis, listening to cheesy music and concentrating on acting as gloriously stupid as possible. Pathetic? Incredibly. At this point, I kind of feel like Gloria Swanson, the aging actress desperately trying to cling to earlier glory (maybe I deserve it. Go ahead).
Despite my constant drunken stupor, or maybe because of it, I’ve had a revelation. Senior spring is surprisingly similar to freshman fall. Many have broken up with long-term significant others (making my life a whole lot easier) and are now drinking a lot more, simply because we can. People are unabashedly hitting on each other, and parties yet again have that frenzied air of sexual frustration and desperation.
Personally, I attribute this phenomenon to my vibrator being broken and having too much time on my hands. So to speak. The major difference, sadly, is that unlike freshman year, I got no game now. It was all so easy back then. I could exploit my novelty as a nubile, innocent (but oh-so-easy) freshman girl and feign interest in the upperclassmen’s small talk. I had an awesome balcony (Westco 421, overlooking Foss Hill) and I would lure the boy in, then put on “Graceland,” because no one with half a soul dislikes Paul Simon.
Sigh. It worked like a charm. Every time. Those were the days.
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