Where do you draw the line between ordinary la joie de vivire lunacy and pure unadulterated goat-fucking stupidity? Probably somewhere around life-threatening substance abuse.
[media-credit name=”Kiki Niebhur” align=”alignleft” width=”89″][/media-credit]So it’s Friday night. You’re drinking cheap beer with your buddies, and it’s just about that magical time where your vision is blurred to the point where you can’t really tell how much makeup the girls are wearing, but you can still speak the English language with a relative degree of coherency. You strike out into I.V., on the hunt for some girl with absolutely no self respect because hey, you don’t have any either. Fast forward. You and that special girl whose name you can’t remember are taking shots. You’re having a great time. Why not get funky? So you pull out some Norcos and let the good times roll. Next thing you know, you’re waking up in a bed that is clearly not yours, and surprise! That I.V. hood-rat lying next to you is colder than yesterday’s Freebirds nachos.
I’ve done some things in my life some would consider a bit crazy. When I was 15, me and my buddy stole his father’s Ferrari and tore through our town’s quiet 35 mph limited streets at 115mph like Ferris Bueler on crack cocaine. I’ve walked through dark alleys late at night on the streets of Buenos Aires, and when the man stepped from the shadows wielding that knife, I decided that the hundred dollars in my wallet was more valuable to me than my life. I’ve hurled myself off peaks so steep mountain goats were pissing themselves. I’ve foolishly paddled out in gnarly triple overhead surf that would have made Jeff Clark think twice before suiting up. But come on. Give me a fucking break.
So what would drive good looking, well educated, affluent college students with obscene amounts of opportunity and future potential to play what is essentially the pharmaceutical version of Russian roulette? Is it some inner nihilism, a latent expression of self-destruction stemming from some deep seated need that modern society is unable to fulfill? A cry for help? Or maybe it’s the immaturity of spoiled, vacuous, shallow human beings who, contrary to what their SAT scores might suggest, are just too damn stupid to appreciate what they have. Yeah, I think that’s probably it.
I wake up everyday, and when I walk to class, admiring the world class beauty of both our women and our weather, I thank God (or whatever particular deity or spirit being I’m on good terms with that week) for sending me here. This is, in my opinion, as close to heaven as you can get. My life, on a good day at least, is one deliciously hedonistic carnal pleasure after another, and I usually get learn some pretty cool things too. My experience here will allow me to move on a live a lifestyle that for 98% of the world is merely a fantasy.
That being said, my idea of a good time is not some blacked out quest to see how far I can make it to that nirvana called Xanax and alcohol-induced heart failure and still come back. Not only are those kinds of shenanigans not fun at all, because as far as I’m concerned if you can’t remember it, it never actually happened. The risk involved makes me wonder just how mind-bogglingly stupid these people really are. I can only hope this game of “being cool” and “having a good time” ends up self selecting them out of the gene pool. God forbid some of the clowns actually make it through college and survive to pass on their embarrassingly unappreciative genes.
So, while you’re doing your best to climb into a body bag Friday night, I’ll be sipping on some frosty dankness with a special lady-friend on my lap, enjoying the good company of good people. See you on the other side.
Just a thought–you may want to lay off that “frosty dankness” for a bit, buddy. When I was going to UCSB the joke was that the initials stood for “U Can Study Buzzed.’ Up to a point, then you’re toast.
Giving your money up to a mugger is not crazy, it is to be expected.