All signs point to me spending the next three days listening to Elvis Costello and staying just drunk enough to thoroughly appall all my lightweight friends. Senior week! Woo!
Ugh. This morning I woke up, finished that paper (my last ever, thanks be to God), and headed down to one of Off-Brand Uptight New England Liberal Arts College's many artificially verdant swaths of lawn for mimosas and donuts. After enduring two unimpressive glasses full of mostly orange juice, I had to explain to the bartenders--at 10:15 in the morning, mind--exactly how I wanted my mimosa: "Okay. Can you make me one with thiiiiiiiiis much champagne? And, like, thismuch orange juice?" The bartender on the right giggled (and let me just state, for the record, that I do not think that grown men should giggle, ever) and handed me the mimosa. "You're our best customer," he said. "You should come back for the barbecue by the pond. We'll be serving beer. For free!" Seriously, dude, do I know you? We have not established the kind of rapport where you can tease me about the fact that I am kind of a lush, okay? I hate it when total strangers assume that I'll find their judgement endearing.
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