Five years ago today my life flipped onto its head...

... it has been very stubborn about flipping back over.

With apologies to Heather, I have to share a story:
Seven months ago, or just over, I was upset about a certain girl who refused to date me. I kept asking the same stupid questions that everyone asks in that sort of situation and got no real answers. And my friend Heather was wonderful at talking to me and listening to me and generally keeping my mind off of how sorry I was feeling for myself. And after one session of listening to me bitch for a while about this great girl she said, "It's not that major. I mean, it's not like your Dad's dead or anything."
[editor's note: Stephen's Dad is dead]

I still kid Heather about that comment and she threatens me every time I do.

I do miss him, though. Mom does to. Probably Megan as well, although she and I never speak of it. But it's been a rough five years in some respects. My life has been totally different from how it would've been if Dad had stayed alive. He would've insisted on some things that Mom and I agreed were a bad idea. He would've enjoyed some things and advised me on some things that I could've used the help on.
He would've loved watching his children go off to college.
He would've hated seeing Georgia beat Tennessee so many times over.
He would've enjoyed discussing philosophy, but hated discussing religion, with his son.
He would've been so proud of his daughter's voice, and dances.

I learned something new tonight about the night my father died. I was out of town, so I was spared being at the house when he passed away, or at the hospital when they tried to recessitate him. (A futile but obligatory effort.) But I learned that my Mom, while she sat outside the hospital room where the doctors were trying to bring back her husband, was hoping and even praying that they would fail. She knew that Dad would've hated this new ailment in his life. He would've hated being stuck in a hospital even more often than he was already. Hated the new lack of control over himself, and hated the burden that it placed on his family. So Mom prayed that he would stay at peace.
I think that's difficult to do.... bordering on impossile to do. Because she didn't want him to die, and yet let go for his sake anyways.
I admire that courage.

I remember when I got back in town, that going into the funeral home and seeing my father was the hardest thing I've ever done. Ever.
And I can't even begin to compare my courage to my mother's.

I love you, Mom.


and i love you too, dad....

Ode to Collegiate Alchoholism

College students are truly a rare breed. Week after week we put ourselves through the gauntlet of flip-cup tournaments, keg stands, ice luges, and power hours only to pass out briefly and wake up at obscene hours of the morning to re-fuel our still-intoxicated bodies with a few more beers all in the name of tailgate. We also lack any legitimate sense of time. We "pre-drink" until eleven. 12:20 classes are "early." We know 2:00 a.m. as "last call" because we have been going to the bars since we were 17 with fake I.D.s. There is a day of the week referred to as "Boozeday."

We college kids undoubtedly have a subculture unto ourselves. Some people play basketball, we play beer pong. Some people wait all year for Christmas or Thanksgiving, we wait all year for St. Patty’s Day, New Years Eve, and Superbowl Sunday. Some drink orange juice for breakfast, we throw back a Busch Light because we hear its a good cure for that hangover. We can turn anything into a drinking game.

We live in our own world, a world where jungle juice seems like a good idea, being awake at 4 a.m. is normal, “wanna do a body shot” is a sufficient pick-up line, and 21st birthdays are an entity unto themselves. We have become aware that alchohol makes us say, do, and wear things that would, in a sober state, be out of the question. Watching our friend make out with a stranger in front of cheering spectators is raw comedy, kegerators become the greatest invention the world has ever seen, and we "discover" things that seem utterly amazing…like malt liquor...and Beerios...

We nickname beers. If we're at the bar and we ask for a "Beast" or a "Natty," the bartender knows what we're talking about because he's probably in college too. We have drunken alter-egos and we name them. A few sots down the hatch and we suddenly turn into "Don Juan" the tequila-chugging wonder...We are experts at Waterfalls, never running out of tricky categories or a clever rule. We draw on the faces of passed out friends, we know that empty fifths make great decorations in our apartments (also note: empty kegs can be sweet coffee tables), and we have done a "shotski".

We make friends while we are drunk and we assign them an adjective that will forever precede their name in order to distinguish them from the rest of the "friends" we make while drunk (also because we do not know their last names.) "Drunk Dan," "Man Whore," and "Sketchy Dug" will always be near and dear to our hearts.

We have no money because we spent it all on beer. This, unfortunately, is also why we drink PBR and Schlitz, and trust us, that takes heart. It grows on us after awhile...or after we've taken too many shots to remember that what we're drinking tastes like gasoline. The lack of money situation is also why if we see someone sipping a Corona, they are a baller, and we will make friends with them.

After a long night of bonging beers at a house party, bravely resisting the urge to drunk dial (and/or drunk IM) all of our ex-girlfriends, then going shot-for-shot with a sorostitute at the bar, we wake up hugging an empty box of wine in our underwear on our best friend's kitchen floor with a million questions running through our pounding heads. We wake up with random incoherent numbers in our cell phones ("Who the hell is 'grEenshirtgzrll'?"), random pictures on our cameras ("Look, here’s one of so-and-so humping that Corona chick on the dance floor..."), a mere 73 cents left in our wallets ("I didn't know Hold 'em was a drinking game?"), and a desperate desire to lay in bed for the rest of our lives...it is then that we swear off drinking forever...for real....we really mean it this time....

Yet, after shotgunning a brewski or two and kickin back with a 40, we head to the shower, beer in hand, and get ready to begin our evening once again. It takes balls, simply put. We know how to party. We have honed and perfected our art. We are lushes, bar stars, and boozehounds.

Why do we act this way you ask? Because we can. Because in 4 short, blurry years we will have to enter the “real world”. So for the time being we will live it up…As long as there are beers to be drank and shots to be taken, we will be there...as long as there are case races to be won and frat houses to pass out in, we will be there...as long as there are bars to be danced on and annoying eighties songs to sing loudly along to, WE WILL BE THERE!...but we're not gonna lie, we probably won't remember it.

A horse and a chicken were walking one day through the Farmer's fields.

And they were walking and they were talking and all of a sudden the horse fell into this huge pit. This pit was deep. And the horse tried jumping out and he tried climbing out and nothing was working. He just couldn't get out of this pit. So he yelled up the the chicken, "Hey Chicken! Run back to the Farmer's house and get his new car and some rope, drive out here and get me out of this pit!"

So the chicken ran back to the house, got some rope and the Farmer's brand new BMW 530 and drove into the fields. He came to the pit that the horse was in, tied the rope to the back of the BMW and threw the other end into the hole. The horse grabbed the rope and the chicken drove the car off, pulling the horse up safely.


A couple of weeks later.... same horse, same chicken, same field. They were walking and they were talking and all of a sudden the chicken fell into the same huge pit. And the chicken tried jumping out and he tried climbing out... but again, nothing was working. So he yelled up to the horse, "Hey Horse, You remember how this works... get the BMW and the rope and get me out of this thing!"

But the horse shook his head. He just stood there, whipped his penis out and threw it down in the hole. And the chicken climbed up easily and was saved.

What's the moral of this story?
If you're hung like a horse, you don't need Daddy's BMW to pick up chicks.