It’s all about to pop

Four years ends right here. With the pop of a bottle we raised a glass of street-side bubbly to all those endless classes and one final exam. We shrugged off all those a, b, and all of the aboves: gave hugs, high-fives, and smiles.

We did it. The final features have been pumped onto the web and printed out on glossy magazine pages. Documentaries have been cut and screened. Our CVs are stocked, jobs have been won or lost; new plans made to replace our school days.

With that it was off the pub for pitchers of beer, time to get hazy and say all those things we’d been meaning to mention over a semester spent grunting hellos and rushing off to finish what we started.

As we looked around the patio the faces we saw weren’t the ones we’d heard about back home when we announced we’d be heading off to journalism school. Not competitive bastards inching their way to top the media ladder. Instead we’d found shoulders to lean on, friends to act as editors: people we needed.

And when I got home I found two I’d leaned on all semester. One fast asleep in my bed, another using my scanner, both glad I’d returned. Though we’ll soon walk in different directions, I promise to them: I’ll always return.

See you bastards tonight at prom.

Every day the music dies.

The drugs were about to hit when the interview began. And once we stepped into public, there were not glances, but full-on stares from every direction. Clearly, we were making a scene.

On the sidewalk we ran into a friend with a record player, and inspected her collection. We cracked the player open but all that would play was the flash of blue and red lights from the vermin across the street.

Still, everyone was staring. We filed onto an overcrowded streetcar, hoping that our disguises would save us from small talk and explanations. We had places to be, and if we didn't up the dose, sobriety would return.

In the dark corner of a bar named after the female anatomy we finally got our filthy fingers on another round of drinks. A bottle of wine to share. Two beers for me. Champagne for the table.

Before the soup had arrived I was outside taking a cigarette break, damning the lesbians that wouldn't let me smoke indoors. Dinner was rushed and delicious, as if I hadn't eaten in days.As the bill arrived we tailgated to another bar, demanding two more rounds of drinks. I wondered aloud why everyone else was asking the questions.

The evening ended with a redhead on my balcony, neither of us entirely sure how we got there. I woke up in my bed alone, wearing someone else's clothes, wondering what the hell happened to Sid Vicious. Both cases ended in self-inflicted death.

*Excerpt from Fear of being the only ones dressed up for the costume party and Loathing she who invited us. Please direct all anonymous comments to Ice Age Heat Wave.