Sunday Drinks
by Becky Hoy
It is a Sunday afternoon. All traces of the weekend have nearly
left. As I sit in my dorm room, I see only a few people still struggling
back to their home, weary and still slightly drunk from the weekend’s
festivities. One in particular catches my eye. He wears an American flag
around his shoulders and weaves rather inefficiently towards his building,
the mumblings of a song only he seems to know dribbling from his
drunken lips. At points the song crescendos with a great thrust of the
singer’s fist. He is directing a one-man choir, and seems to be enjoying
himself. I like him.
The less fortunate souls have sobered up in preparation for a
week full of exams and papers. Girls who last night were stumbling on
teetering heels resort to sneakers as they truck to the library, a sack of
books on their backs. I enjoy watching their alter egos from the perch
that is my window. It kind of makes me feel like some sort of overlord.
One of the girls in the backpacks pauses to puke in an innocentlooking trash receptacle. Poor trashcan. The girl wipes her mouth and
continues on to the library. I try a little cackle, because I feel that’s what
an evil, judgmental overlord on a perch would do. It doesn’t sound right
echoing off the cement of my walls, so I take it back, feeling guilty. Sorry,
girls. Go about your business. I think to myself that this is how God
probably feels, watching us all run around pretending to be students,
upstanding citizens, lawyers, doctors, gardeners. When in our heart, we
really just want a stiff drink.
Later that day, buried in stress and books and the knowledge that
I must pick a major (and what I presume is a sort of death sentence) next
week, I want a stiff drink. Fortunately for me, so does my roommate.
Though we have class in the morning, we convince ourselves that, being
young, we must make the most of the time in which it is appropriate
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