The Game of Life

I live in Connecticut. Wow how amazingly awesome you might say that is. But you’d be wrong, so wrong that I could only think about doing immediate physical harm to you. Sorry but that’s just the way it is.

I’ll describe my life to you. I’m a senior in college. “Good for you!” you say. Well fuck you again. I’m certainly happy that I am where I am, but don’t think it was wonderful getting here. Let’s start with my freshman year in college. I lived, of course, in a dorm. A dorm of all freshmen, a dorm of all attractive and normal guys and girls. All except my roommate.

I remember calling him about two weeks before we moved in three years ago. And he mentioned he was kind of a ‘big kid’. “Oh, so you’re a fat fuck” I thought to myself. And boy was I right. I had never met an unhealthier person in all my years. It was just my fucking luck that out of all the awesome people from my floor that year, I got stuck with him. He smelled awful and had a one shower per two days policy, which he claimed was because he was trying to conserve energy. If you ask me this guy was conserving enough energy on his stomach and thighs to more than make up for four or five showers a day. He also snored; he snored so much that if you didn’t know better you’d swear you were being attacked by a dragon-bear hybrid of some kind. Now if I wasn’t worried about fighting off the dragon-bear that night, I was either studying or drinking. Occasionally drinking by myself because I soon realized that the ‘awesome people from my floor’ were all rip-offs of people I though were left behind in The Real World: Hawaii. Welcome to Connecticut. Life in this dorm was bad enough that I used my brand new calculus book to calculate my chances of surviving a jump from my fourth floor window. Which I believe was built strategically small to prevent me from escaping the dragon-bear and real-worlders.

I became friendly with the kids across the hall. One was this ghetto white kid; the other was someone who was way into computers/gamimg/interneting so he and I clicked pretty well. Unfortunately, this kid had a friend. A friend who I will never be able to forget, except for his name, which I seem to have forgotten right now. This kid had stories, lots and lots of stories. You’d of thought he’d lived four or five times. Twice as Julius Caesar and three times as Napoleon Bonaparte, to have the stories this kid had. However, when I think back into what his stories were I begin to believe that he didn’t have any at all. Rather he just had responded to your stories with something the same, yet superior in some way.

For instance, I once told the story of when I was bit by a snake (which is bullshit, because I was simply testing this kid to see what he said). It was by some strange coincidence of fate that he was not only bitten by a snake, he was bitten by five snakes, all at the same time. This tale eventually turned into that he fell into a snake pit. I never called him on his line of bullshit; I just sat back and enjoyed every second of it.

PS: Yes this is a different writeup than was here earlier this morning, I wasn't really happy with the previous one.