We’ve all had our crazy nights, pouring cups of warm, stale
beer down stairwells. Throwing pears at the walls. Lighting Silly Putty on
fire out of sheer boredom. The next morning, after a fitful sleep filled with
sweaty dreams, we wake up, look around and see the sticky, brown and encrusted
remains of the night before. The conundrum facing all of us is what to do with
those remains, those corpses of fun?
Can a corpse be fun? Necrophilia is fun to some. Flogging
a dead horse may be fun, but everyone knows its just a waste of time. That pear
still sticking to the wall is closer to fun, as it slowly rots into a putrid
puddle below, we giggle with recollection at the not-so-hot girl who we thought
would be impressed by our gusto and spontenaity. The ashes of silly putty
stink, lacklusterly lying on the table. Empty beer cans can be stacked and
toppled. Old vomit can be splashed and thrown around to the delight of many.
But this kind of fun is shallow, merely an echo of real fun. The day after can
never be the night before. The next year will never be freshman year. Time
marches on, not caring that you never wiped up the pear juice, that you never
took out the garbage, that you never washed the sheets. We’re all gonna die.
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