All I’ve ever wanted to be in life is Hunter S. Thompson. This is my attempt at Gonzo journalism for Waning Gibbous on the Quad, as you astronomy buffs so rightly pointed out.
As I am running to push a shopping cart carrying a sousaphone, as my chemically induced feelings of wonder and beauty have fully engaged themselves, after three long years, I actually have to hand it to the ASSU. For an organization that embodies apathy and deadweight loss, it finally came up with a good idea. Super Mash Bros. appears to be working the crowd into an optimal frenzy, and the Band as pied piper should successfully minimize any awkward transition period.
Awkward transition period, that’s a suitable name for the events that followed. The sophomore class said they wanted to class it up. I see nothing of the kind. I heard there were supposed to be roses. I can’t find them, which is fine. After all, in the immortal words of Andre 3000, “Lean a little bit closer, see, roses really smell like boo boo boo.” Maybe it’s just a function of Stanford (a.k.a. the first place I met anyone under 40 who enjoyed golf), but I have noticed that my generation has a confounding obsession with classiness, though only in a superficial sense. “Classy” is a great theme for parties. Drinking Two Buck Chuck instead of Coors Light really means you’re going places in the world, but the preponderance of middle-class liberal guilt has taken all the bite out of telling someone they’re like school in July. If anything, it’s usually viewed as a compliment.
Besides, sophomore class, did you miss the birth of a man called Michael Cera? Awkwardness is how we define ourselves. Some kids enter Full Moon looking for their first kiss. Half the people there can’t stop thinking about their midterms the next day. The other half will view it as a referendum on their attractiveness, even though it’s completely dark outside. It’s a strange, awkward, annoying, horrible, beautiful, awesome event. Why you wanna mess all that up by tryin’ ta inject a silly thing like “class,” with all of its socioeconomic implications, up in here?
Back to the scene. I wish I had been able to find my extra “Kiss Me, I Donated Blood” sticker. That might have smoothed things over. No matter, this is awesome. I’m having the greatest time. Should probably try to find some freshmen, but I’m also, like, not feeling the need to put on my creeper hat. I’m just gonna try and find people I know. I’d be really happy if someone came up to me and said they really like my column. That stuff never gets old. It’s really the main buttress of my ego at this point. Oh, hello lady. Why yes, I would like to kiss you. I don’t think this gets discussed enough, but kissing tastes weird. It looks like a lot of people are standing on the outside. They must be sad. I am wondering when everyone’s gonna wake up and turn Full Moon into the love-fueled rave it’s supposed to be. It’d cut through a whole lot of that awkwardness. We need an Owsley Stanley up in this, but for MDMA instead. Just sayin’.
Earlier this week, whoever the opening act was got a hold of my e-mail and called Full Moon a sketchfest. That seems like a mischaracterization. For something that’s on the mind of everyone here, there are very few events explicitly dedicated to the satisfaction of bodily desires. People need a place to go where they can affirm for themselves that “yes, I am a sexual being who is looking to satisfy my desires tonight if the right person comes along.” Sketchy is too loaded a word. True, some idiots are going to cross some boundaries because they think they’re entitled to. Assholes. But letting them take over the event really does a disservice to everyone else who is using Full Moon as a chance to just possibly figure out what the hell they are ever doing about anything ever.
It’s currently 1:30. I didn’t keep tally, but I’m satisfied. Did not find any of the girls I might have been looking for. My scooter is currently lost in that shopping cart. When texting a friend about how her evening went, I for some reason mentioned AxeComm. This girl I do not know wants me to text last year’s Tree because she “really wants to know where he is.” This is dumb, but I’m bored so I play along. He texts back “I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON.” This takes 40 minutes. (Thank God for timestamps on texts.) All right, enough of this. It’s a long walk back to the Shak. Well done, Stanford.
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