It’s 5:37 a.m. and I’m straggling through the slums in neon orange short-shorts I reserve for nights like these, nights like last night, along with the first shirt I saw on the ground which I couldn’t really see in the dark of his room but it’s large and now the sunrise has revealed it to be a tee shirt from some leadership conference or some shit and I think This is ironic because I was totally leading last night if you know what I mean and then I’m like is that even irony or am I just awesome?
Call me Moses Goldstein. You won’t be wrong. Say it and I’ll turn around, look back at you out of the corner of my eye, smile a bit and raise an eyebrow at you coyly, because I’m a coy guy, and—of course—that is my name.
It’s that time of year again when the staircases are rainbowed up, the walk from my dorm to Frist smells like lilacs, and supposedly, hidden somewhere in the nooks of Princeton campus, are over 1,000 gay alumni ready to party.
Just a few nights ago, I was eating at Whitman when the band came to play during dinner. Their entrance was met with the usual palpable dread. Aside from a few clapping friends, the reaction of the dining hall was mostly a muffled groan, rolling eyes and petulant, commiserative stares at nearby friends.
Before, she had felt as though of the night as a separate space—a sealed pocket of her life—but now she was reminded that everything that existed around the pool at daytime still stood by at night: the black hardtop of the basketball court, a racquetball wall, and the town Rec Center itself, a building which tomorrow would reveal to be little more than a grey dome without windows.