Like a Nine-Year-Old's Birthday Party

The story goes that two roommates went bowling one night. They made a pact to maximize their mediocre bowling talents by setting a goal for combined score. If the sum of their scores reached 250 points, a mere average of 125 per person, they would commence with a preplanned ritual. In the event that they did not meet their set criteria, however, no celebration would take place, and they would merely return home defeated.

The two roommates rooted each other on throughout the game, but they struggled to follow a common plan. When one went hot with strikes, the other would cool with splits. Nevertheless, their combined score of the first game was exactly 250 points. As one roommate cooled his sore finger among the vapors from the vents, the other proposed that they engage in another game. With zeal, the roommate convinced the other to risk the celebration and enter into another game, with the same 250-point criteria.

The flow of the second game shockingly resembled the first, with neither roommate maintaining a stable streak of bowling excellence. In the final frame, Roommate #1 brushed off his first throw of a 1, and knocked down the remaining nine pins. To the alarm of Roommate #2, the scoreboard contradicted what actually happened, recording a game-over 8. After some persuasion, the lady bowling attendant amended the scoring error, allowing the first roommate to knock an additional nine pins down on his final throw and bringing his score to 125.

Roommate number 2 entered the final frame with a 107, eighteen points away from the threshold for jubilation. He stretched to the side, alleviating his sore ass muscle. After another visit to the vapors, he threw his 13-pound bowling ball toward the pins, knocking down 8 in the process. He needed to hit the remaining two pins, or any hopes for celebration would be forever abandoned in the alley. He succeeded by completing the spare, leaving him with one final throw, eight pins needed for a score of 125.

He knocked down eight pins with his final throw. Both roommates ended the game with scores of 125, which added up to a total of 250, exactly 250. With their goal met for a second time, the roommates made arrangements to celebrate their achievement. They returned to their apartment, drank malt beverages, ate a single Reese's peanut butter cup, and watched American Idol.

Life is like a box of Russell Stover

Whatever you call February 14, whether Cupid's arrow has hit you in the heart on Valentine's Day or in the ass on Singles Awareness Day, you can't ignore the rolling around of Valentine's Day. It never fails to exist and provides a boom to the chocolates, floral, and shotgun businesses. You either love someone or hate love, and those feelings are brought to attention once a year, February 14.

I'm actually indifferent about Valentine's Day this year. Last year reminded me of the year before, my only Valentine's Day with someone I truly loved. It was a Friday, which meant that I went to class with girls carrying roses and balloons, every couple discussing their plans-- I vividly remember an Asian couple mention McDonald's. I even had to help my roommate make last-second plans; he was clueless on his first Valentine's Day with a girlfriend. I was on the phone making dinner reservations, looking for cheap roses, all for another couple, reminding me that I had no one to call mine.

Today has been a blur of a Valentine's Day. I have yet to take a shower and still permeate an odor of Arturo Fuente stogies. I've slept all but about 4 hours of the day, my body attempting to recover from last night's and this morning's festivities. Lovefest was my Valentine's. It was a hell of a party, though its potential was somewhat damaged by an early visit from the boys in blue (Lovefest resumed after a one-hour hiatus). I was surrounded by countless spectators and beautiful people, but more importantly, I was with a few hometown boys who I've gradually realized would do almost anything for me.

It will always be that camaraderie that makes Lovefest 2 one of my most unforgettable college experiences, because the fact of the matter is there were spots where I felt uncomfortable and out of my niche. Parties like Lovefest give me moments of fire and exhilaration, but I'm not in my comfort zone. Whenever I'd see one of my friends in the beginning stages of a hookup, part of me would envy them, the part that wishes I were more spontaneous, less reserved, and more risk-taking. But that's not who I am. In the end, I was content to get a couple of kisses on the cheek and didn't expect anything more. People, situations, and dates on the calendar don't compel me to pretend to be something I'm not.

I didn't go out of my way to make plans with the opposite sex on Valentine's Day. I've always felt the day was more reserved for true romance and genuine feelings. I'm still tired and dirty, most likely destined to have a quiet night in my apartment. I am content to leave this night to the couples out there, particularly the ones who sometimes take for granted that love is one of the most unexplainable but marvelous phenomena known to man.

Happy Valentine's Day, and goodnight.

Lovefest 2

One year ago... one party... ruined people's lives!

So goes the legacy of Lovefest, a pre-Valentines bash where the booze, hookups, and memories have no end. This year came the sequel, a party so elaborate it put the standard college kegger to shame. Red and white lighting, bartending, custom-made drink menus, shot glasses made of ice, a champagne room, afterparty Arturo Fuentes... and many cameras. Here are a few stills from my sixteen minutes of sensuous, hilarious, incriminating video footage:


You can find me in da club, bottle fulla Bud...





Jen, Jarrod, and Amber make the sexiest Lovefest Sandwich ever! Which of them was the sexiest component of the sandwich was not the most debated issue at Lovefest, but I'm thinking it should've been.





Jason's mp3 playlist was hooked up to the sound system. His exact words when picking this song: "R. Kelly get the young girls into it." We then proceeded to have a five-minute debate about what constitutes "Old School" rap. Jason won because he's all Westside.





Jen down on her knees in the Champagne Room. Brandon sacrificed his room, his carpet, and his innocence for a champagne room. We thanked him.





I will never forget that Jean Moulin helped lead the Resistance in France, and German Leslie is solely responsible for that knowledge.





Dustin was proud of the fact that these were a size 7, but ashamed that he couldn't figure out how to hold them correctly. Thankfully, a girl who had experience wearing panties showed him the proper positioning.





I was there, and I can say that he was an innocent bystander forced to partake in spilled whipped cream tradition.





It's not a party at the Landings if Jason doesn't berate and disown Frank. At the end of the night, Jason hopped through his living room to U2's "Beautiful Day," celebrating the permanent restraining order he had declared on Frank.





This here, my friends, is the definition of "Money".

Today's Science Experiment

While doing some last-minute studying for this morning's Behavioral Neuroscience exam, I learned something no book could ever teach me: If you're brushing your teeth and feel the urge to sneeze, rush yourself to the sink, or else you'll end up spewing saliva-diluted toothpaste all over your hand and any object within a 4-foot radius.