>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
February 12, 2006
With Valentine's Day right around the corner I found it necessary to take a look at the relationships we've all had in the past, the present, and the future. There's never a guarantee in college life that you'll find the love of your life. I remember in high school my friend Megan spread out all of her acceptance letters on her dining room table, looked up and me and in all seriousness said, “Wow. I could meet my future husband at whichever college I choose to attend. This is more than an academic decision. This is my romantic fate.” At the time I remember wanting to tell to her, “Meg, we've spent the past four years at an all girls high school. We're going to prom with guy friends and we had to make a down payment of beer to ensure they meet us with suits on! Who cares about meeting our potential future husbands?! I'm getting wet just thinking about the fact that for the first time since 8th grade I'm going to be sitting in class next to penis!” But of course I just smile and nodded. Because when you care about your friends enough, you keep the harsh reality to yourself, quietly.
Slowly but surely the penis sitting next to me in class turned into more than just a classmate, like most penises do. Eventually you develop a relationship with said penis, and if it’s successful for a while you’ll eventually fall in love. Here’s a little secret: I have dropped the L-bomb three times in college. That's an average of 1.3 times in four years. Twice in which the L-bomb was reciprocated. Which is good because two of the three times I was hammered. And once I didn't mean it. So it really amounts to an average of once every two years. Like I said before, it was reciprocated twice and once met with a look of utter horror quickly followed by a look of shock quickly followed by going to the bathroom and never returning. Once it worked out, and once he worked it out with someone else.
“The L-bomb should never be dropped too soon. You never imagine the other person fleeing the building with limbs flailing.”
But we're not here to discuss my L-bomb statistics. We’re here to discuss its explosion. Some say the H-bomb is more powerful than the L-bomb. But in retrospect, no matter how much time passes, long after you graduate, when you’re ten years into your 401K plan, when the memories of college have faded considerably, you’ll always remember with amazing clarity where you were, what you were doing, and maybe even what you were wearing/drinking when the L-bomb was dropped, including the explosion and its aftermath.
There are some people who drop the L-bomb way too early in the relationship. You may have heard horror stories about someone dropping the L-bomb on the first date or even by the end of the first week. Let me tell you something, anyone who is releasing that L-word into the wild like that, letting it run rapid through the dorms, not worrying about how strong and powerful it is to hear it after only watching two movies and having lunch together with the person it was fired upon, is fucking creepy. That’s why the L-bomb should never be dropped too soon. You imagine the person’s reaction, the smile, the eyes widening, the comfort of knowing it is a shared feeling, but you never imagine dropping it and the other person immediately fleeing the building with limbs flailing, seeking safety in any shelter available (a friend’s apartment, a car with a full tank of gas, or most convenient, a bar).
I’ve seen friends in love. It’s sweet. I’ve seen friends bitter at the friends who are in love. I have seen friends who think they’re in love with someone who doesn’t love them. And I have seen friends who are relentless in the pursuit of falling in love. And who wouldn’t want to be in love? The world really isn’t that bad of a place when you’re in love: the sky is bluer, the grass is greener, you’re 20-page term paper won’t be so hard, and hey, the food in the dining hall isn’t all that bad. But pursing love is a dangerous game. It can lead to drunken rants in public areas when relations don’t work out as planned. It can lead to long nights lying awake in bed wondering what you can do to make your lover see how f-ing amazing you are. It can lead you to complete and utter heartache and absolute confusion. In extreme cases it can even drive some men to read (while creatively editing) the book “He’s Just Not That Into You.” And love makes you do crazy things, but that’s when you’ve reached the point of no return.
Once a guy drops an L-bomb, the immaturity of friends comes out of the woodwork. Normal conversations are now completely distorted into formidable exchanges regarding everyday affairs.
“Hey man, we’re going to order a pizza, you want in?”
“Yeah I’m in.”
“Alright I’m getting a large pepperoni.”
“Awesome, I love pepperoni!”
“Really? You love pepperoni? Do you really love pepperoni? Do you wanna marry pepperoni? Do you wanna make sweet love to pepperoni? Do you love pepperoni all the way to the moon and back?!”
And you stand there knowing that until someone else in your group of friends does something as spectacularly entertaining as the L-bomb, this is how all the conversations will be like from then on out.
Love. They say it’s all you need. But when you don’t have it on Valentine’s Day, love becomes your alcoholic beverage of choice. And let me make this clear once and for all: being single isn’t all that bad. Being single on Valentine’s Day isn’t a big deal. Why some women make it this big sob fest, I’ll never know. If Valentine’s Day was the one day every year when everyone was herded into a big ark two by two and you had no one to pair up with and perished in a massive flood, then yes, being single on Valentine’s Day would seriously suck. But you’re single on the 13th, you’re single on the 15th, you’re single the day after that, and possibly the month after that. All you don’t get on the 14th is a cheap box of chocolates and a free meal at a nice restaurant. Big fucking loss. You can wait ‘til your birthday rolls around for that.
As a Valentine’s Day single I refuse to be around anyone who sits inside with a big bowl of ice cream watching Titanic crying and aching for a love like Jack and Rose had. For the five of you out there who haven’t seen the epic film, let me save you three hours of your life by giving you the shortened version and some notice. I’d just like to point out that Jack dies in the end, so anyone wishing to take a boat ride, have sex in a car located in the cargo area (of all romantic places), then freeze to death in the Atlantic ocean, well, I don’t think we’d make it as friends.
I think that every office building should have a fountain. For one thing, the subtle lapping of water has the power to calm even the most stressed. For another, people can chuck their pennies in and make wishes. Wishes that they might get the big promotion, wishes that the building would burn to the ground, wishes that their computer would spontaneously combust, thus extending their lunch. But most importantly every office should have a fountain where people can go drown themselves on Monday mornings. You know, just as a courtesy.
A week ago I didn’t mind eating in the dining area in the building. The food seemed decent enough. Much better than what I was eating at Lawrence. But I can’t eat there every day. You get sick of the same old stuff if you have to eat it every day for four years. The other day I found what I would like to believe was gray lint, but other suggested was mold, in my soup. Now I can never eat there again. But that’s not the reason why I can’t eat there. The truth is, I hit on a 19-year-old who works in the same building as me. In my defense, I didn’t know he was 19 at the time. But we’d been making eye contact for a while and I gave him my number. When I suggested we meet for a drink, he told me he was underage. I promptly said this was never going to work out between us. But not before I made my friend Erin fling open the door to the smoking lounge and exclaim like a valley girl, “This isn’t the dry cleaners!” Just to see if he was in there.
The other day my parents suggested that I get a job at Ed Debevics, which is a 50’s themed restaurant where the waiters dress up in 50’s stereotypes (think of the musical Grease), are rude to their customers, and have to dance every fifth song or so. It was really entertaining when I was younger, but the food isn’t that good, and there’s never any parking. Nevertheless, my mom recited (verbatim from the Optimistic Mother’s Manual, I imagine), “It’ll give you a chance to really develop a character. Show off your talent.” Listen Mom, for $2.50 an hour plus tips, I’d rather show off my talent as Sandra “McStripster” Dee where I can dance on a table for $250 an hour and not have to serve overpriced burgers to tourists. And while the latter would make me financially independent, I don’t plan on doing either anytime soon.
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