The three month window of time, called summer, is a repetitive period each year when the fourth dimension of time ceases to exist. We have up, down, left, and right, and whether time continues moving forward, or is simply without motion has not yet been proven by science, but most of us could not tell you if it is Sunday, Thursday, or Funday. A day starts with contemplations of who our companions will be, and ends with fucking (sucking, when she’s chubbier than your intoxication level will allow), passing out and drooling on the carpet, and if we are lucky a comfortable sleep in our own bed. Phone calls consist of, “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Meet me at the beach at fourteenth street.”
Click. Off we are, on the daily expedition into the unknown. How stupid and impulsive can twenty-three to twenty-seven year olds really be? It is a question answered by each August, and then forgotten by September. By May, we’re all looking forward to it, again.
Early summer is an uproar of excitement. The sudden release from the responsibilities of books, papers, class meetings, and practice. In conjunction with the dangerously excessive consumption of alcohol, and reckless daily habits will morph the human mind into a raging bull with no concern for its surroundings or its personal relationships.
The mind has one path, and it is toward the edge of destruction. The place where everyone you know despises your life. Your flesh burns, but you won’t die. You walk around naked with a babies dick, and the crowd that has gathered contains every woman you have ever pined over. You hear laughter, but all you feel are tears.
Luckily, someone is “that guy” every-so-often. Most of the time we shotgun beers by the pool, and ride bikes along the boardwalk. If it were a fairy tale, we would shotgun beers without a care in the world, but…
