hellz yea yo.
so the days have been whizzing past, and we find ourselves somewhere in the middle of september going ‘whoa, brain freeze’ as we finish off the remains of our mint choc chip ice cream. the throb of daftpunk and BT echoing through the dazed skulls of those awed by new schools and those bored by old becomes the life-pulse of the ritualistic computer/homework/eat/sleep routines we all fall into sooner or later. groggy mornings of zombie-like attendance to class are spaced out by the jubilant reunion of friends departed, and the magical nights out with old friends at coffee houses, talking of worldly dreams, theories on life, and other mystical topics while sipping hot things in the cool texas midnight. stick out our tongues to the zing of lemonsalt burning away your skin and we might catch a drop or two of bawls, bringing back memories of lan parties in the past. ‘so this is the fall of 2003,’ we mumble, not sure of whether to be amazed or disappointed, but admiring the sexy IDs swinging daintily from our necks. sliding (literally) past someone who has mistaken the newly tiled hallways for a urinal and exclaiming ‘we pledge allegence, yo, tejas’ suddenly we’re supine, feeling the cold floor against our backs and straining our eyes against the blinding flourescent lights beaming above us. it’s easy to forget, we realise, how much life really does change every year. where were we this time last year? what did we think of life then? how much have we changed? we all answer differently, with a twinkle of the past gleaming in the eyes at the memories of the us gone by. how young we were then. how little we knew! how much we had ahead of us to face. each face a little more pained, each smile a little wider, admiringly we reflect on the worry wrinkles slowly mapping out our brows and those inescapable smile lines framing our cheeky grins. ‘we know’ drones the chorus, sounding utterly depressed at the extent of their knowledge, and, sinking a little lower into the cushions of our chairs we can only think of the cookies and punch to be served, as always and as promised, after the show. ‘up the down!’ someone shrieks, and in the realization that we dont know what’s at the bottom, wilfred owen’s “ecstasy of fumbling” moves to our crowd. but this time the syrup’s too thick to trudge through, and no matter how hard we strain, we’re still headed in our predestined direction. shuffling along the assembly-line of education, who can deny we havn’t witnessed those things which we’d never thought we’d witness, and discovered those things about ‘the gang’ that we never thought we would? red jettas and z3 roadsters, edition freedom or french, primed for racing, it’s not too long before we’re neck-and-neck against ourselves, the throb of the music and the growl of the engine creating a momentary distraction from the scratchmarks on our wrists, tell-tale signs of those insane cats that shock us awake with a soul-jarring yowl as they race across our sleeping forms, nuking peaceful dreams of integrated cows and horses. ‘pick a card,’ prompts the machine, and blindly we confidently stab at the buttons: trail held, three nudges. three limes in a row? some lucky sevens? apples, oranges? protectively clinging our pineapples to our chests, we dash to the beach, only to find it’s been cemented over to form the first-ever sea-view car park. bare feet sizzling gently against the non-stick surface, our gazes turn yet again to the search for a path – any path – to take us home. muttering childhood nursery rhymes as we pour ourselves a gravel path to walk on, we head towards the only place we can, straight on into the cobwebs of the past. requesting connection speed, free mints and salsa for all. DSL, cable, T1? but surely we can only comprehend what dial-up can deliver. seemingly alone in this brand-new box of magic tricks, we’ve really only got to unwrap our hands from our knees and stretch them out to find the touch of a familiar friend. uncurling ourselves from this fetal position, suddenly the floor isnt all that frigid, and lights arent all that glaring. “if you jump on than there’s no turning back!” threaten the faceless lingerie models, peering disdainfully over their meager pile of meatloaf at we young’uns. settling back in the long grass, faces turned upwards towards the pink and fushia glow of the mandarin orange sinking below the curve of an eyelash, we can easily converse with the dragonflies looping wildly overhead, proof that gravity isnt really all that bad.
as the last strains of the beloved alma mater are blasted through our ears with the clash of cymbols we stand slouched but alert, loser ‘L’s’ firmly pressed against foreheads, thousands of voices joining to cry out ‘for eh-ver-more!’ and we cant help but think to ourselves proudly, ‘counter-terrorists win, yo’