A diesel engine rumbles outside. The indistinguishable chitter-chatter of girls comes through the engine's roar. There's four, maybe five of them. I can't see them, it's nighttime. The blinds are only slightly open. I can only assume they're still wearing their knee length dresses from when they went out, clutching their purses as they stumble from the vehicle. They don't even thank the driver, but I wouldn't expect that. Even though they've only had two drinks, they're probably acting like they've had threefold. The voices have quieted down at this point, and the party bus has turned off the street as its groaning has joined in with the sounds of cicadas and the humming of refrigerator. A little more chatter in the distinct pitch of pompous underinformed sorority sisters fades as they enter their house for the night.
It's two a.m. Graduation is today.
An empty bag of Haribo Gold-Bears (the sugar kind, of course) lies next to a cup once filled and refilled with Sun Drop, that now only contains what must've been ice at one point. A closer inspection of the gummy bear bags reveals a net weight of fourteen ounces, along with a rip that curved a little too far and left an uncompromisable opening. Not that I believe this malfunction is the reason for the gluttony that is the consumption of nearly a pound of candy; I am just stating a physical fact.
It's two a.m. Graduation is today.
At this point, you may have realized that I have only described to you a setting of a scene, a backdrop. What is the in foreground, you may inquire. A laptop. MacBook, of course. I'm in college. Only for another day. Remember,
it's two a.m. Graduation is today.
I slump further and further into the loveseat, as my shorts start riding too far up my torso, but this discomfort is the least of my worries. The laptop feels hot against my exposed thighs, but repeated squirming will keep my legs from overheating. One of the buttons is missing from my colorful Caribbean shirt I purchased during spring break. The small gap leads the eye to an emerging dadbod-hairy with no well-defined features. The slow path towards this new body form starting just under four years ago.
It's two a.m. Graduation is today.
This guy is a shit narrator. If you are thinking this last sentence, number one, you are not wrong, and number two, you must be British for your use of a noun as an adjective. In fact, I'm not well-versed in composition, or really any other form of humanities besides a soon-to-be-confirmed minor in German. I'm not even sure if "soon-to-be-confirmed" is an accepted phrase. Fuck it, this is my story. I can type it in here if I want.
It's two a.m. Graduation is tomorrow.
In case I left you hanging in the last section by narrowing the field of my education, I'll tell you. It's physics. You may think to yourself, myself, this guy is smart. No, ma'am or sir, choosing to be a physics major is not smart. It's nonsensical. It's a stupid decision. If you decide to delve into the depths beyond return of physics, you will be awake at two a.m. the day of your graduation procrastinating a research paper. Do you know what poly(3-hexylthiophene-2,5-diyl) is? If you do, can you comment about it's structure in the solid state?
It's two a.m. Graduation is tomorrow.
Submitted May 09, 2015 at 12:09PM by BurtaciousD http://ift.tt/1DXqq5C shortstories
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