Outside my room, approximately 100 ft. away (give or take, I’ve yet to measure) are multiple fraternities. Tonight, someone broke a window. I was relatively sure someone had broken a window, because, after I heard the shattering and and glass-hitting-cement noise typical of this event, I heard a certain fraternity brother (read: bro), whose voice had risen in proportion to his proximal level of intoxication, shout, “Who broke the fucking window?” This fellow, who immediately realized there were more important problems in the world than unraveling the rapturous tale of the broken glass window (read: babes), soon threw in his detective’s cap and returned to the festivities.
Tonight, Otto got lost from his dear friend. I know this because for a period that I would guess is between five and ten minutes, a single man, aged, I will estimate, 19, stood in a single location (the absence of the changes created by the physics of the doppler effect would have tipped me off to his ambulations) and called, “Otto.” From this occurrence, I assume that Otto is capable of caring for himself, because his colleague’s calls were not out of fright or concern, but out of the “you have to see where the girl just vomited onto her own shoes and then placed them in the bath tub,” kind of way.
Tonight’s most frequently shouted word: car. Whether this is in relation to the window incident, a particular case of automobile intrigue, or something far more metaphysically important, I can’t say I will ever know.
Tonight, someone who could only possibly be drunk to explain this behavior, shushed another party-goer at roughly equal volume to the pulse-pounding mainstream dance tunes. That I had not heard anyone else speaking loudly before the “shush” makes this perhaps even more startling.
Today, when I told someone in text-message response that I was “in town,” they asked how I had acquired a car. I responded that I was at the Barnes and Noble (read: Dartmouth Bookstore). They, in turn, responded that they assumed I meant I was at another town, because the size of downtown Hanover makes an Amish community look like a booming metropolis. This assertion is true. As an interesting sidenote: I have bought an iced americano from the Barnes and Noble’s (read: Dartmouth Bookstore’s) Starbucks, because the only other coffeeshop here that I am aware of closes at 6 p.m., three times and in each instance a new barista was manning (or woman-ing) the counter.
This is Hanover, I am Brad Bolman, and I believe in the necessity of the Oxford comma.
Tonight, Otto got lost from his dear friend. I know this because for a period that I would guess is between five and ten minutes, a single man, aged, I will estimate, 19, stood in a single location (the absence of the changes created by the physics of the doppler effect would have tipped me off to his ambulations) and called, “Otto.” From this occurrence, I assume that Otto is capable of caring for himself, because his colleague’s calls were not out of fright or concern, but out of the “you have to see where the girl just vomited onto her own shoes and then placed them in the bath tub,” kind of way.
Tonight’s most frequently shouted word: car. Whether this is in relation to the window incident, a particular case of automobile intrigue, or something far more metaphysically important, I can’t say I will ever know.
Tonight, someone who could only possibly be drunk to explain this behavior, shushed another party-goer at roughly equal volume to the pulse-pounding mainstream dance tunes. That I had not heard anyone else speaking loudly before the “shush” makes this perhaps even more startling.
Today, when I told someone in text-message response that I was “in town,” they asked how I had acquired a car. I responded that I was at the Barnes and Noble (read: Dartmouth Bookstore). They, in turn, responded that they assumed I meant I was at another town, because the size of downtown Hanover makes an Amish community look like a booming metropolis. This assertion is true. As an interesting sidenote: I have bought an iced americano from the Barnes and Noble’s (read: Dartmouth Bookstore’s) Starbucks, because the only other coffeeshop here that I am aware of closes at 6 p.m., three times and in each instance a new barista was manning (or woman-ing) the counter.
This is Hanover, I am Brad Bolman, and I believe in the necessity of the Oxford comma.
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