The Party’s Over

 

 

It’s a simple name, really.  But just to be sure, I pronounced it for her, the go-between.  It seemed sort of silly to have someone relay pronunciation to the pronouncer, but at least it had worked well thus far.  I suppose a few wrong names in 900 or so isn’t so bad.

 

But it was bad.  S-I-M-E-S.  Following the rules of English, as shown in the word “times,” one should have no problem with my name.  However, to be fair, the rules of English are rather esoteric.

 

No matter, I’ve never been much of a fan of ornate displays, so it would be fitting that the dissenter misses out on his 1.5 seconds of fame.

 

But the shocking part comes later.

 

“The girls never came”—that’s nothing new, but the guys not showing was.  Many had already left, and others went to better options (a reasonable choice for those still hoping to hound one last night before “hooking up” becomes “dating” becomes a “relationship” becomes “marriage” becomes “divorce”).  A lame party’s one thing, but saying good-bye to people who truly mean something to you is different.  A $5 bottle of champagne doesn’t quite wash down the lump in your throat that comes with the finality of one last hug.  Or even two.

 

The next day, literally less than 24 hours after the entrance into this MTV show that “adults” like to threaten us young apathetics with, they cut us off.  My student ID no longer works, and the $10 I had left on my card now rests wedged in like a large man in Japan’s public transportation system, amidst millions of other thieved dollars.

 

Thanks, BU.  You can count that as my part of the “class gift.”

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