2B
“(When choosing universities) I was talking to
someone and they said you can make a big school small
but you can’t make a small school big. My other college
option was a really small school, and when looking at
it that way, Michigan has so many cool things that I
thought it would be good to come and get involved in a
community instead of getting lost in a big school.”
–LSA junior RICHARD WU
Wednesday November 4, 2015 // The Statement
O
h, and another thing:
There’s a pile, and it’s
made up of all the bad. And
the pile grows and infects like can-
cer, which is, according to scien-
tists, also bad news bears. (Are you
on my side yet?)
And the pile comes from any-
where:
She sighed. I did too, hoping,
half-expecting to hear, “Sorry
things have been weird this past
week. Wanna swap saliva?”
But no saliva swap, not even a
wet nipple fondle. Just “Have a nice
break,” and away she drove. That
night, we split up.
Into the pile.
Later, I stood in front of my mir-
ror and winked both eyes at the
same time. One was red. Was I get-
ting pinkeye again? I’d had it three
times that week. (Into the pile.)
I was depressed. I knew I was
depressed because my shirt was
untucked. I watched The Simpsons
and tried to remember to laugh.
When Homer did something, I
went like, “Heh-heh.”
Two days later, we played Michi-
gan State. And I know everything’s
already been said about everything
about everything, but dammit this
is my column and I’m gonna talk
about it! Weeeeeee!
Here’s what I remember:
From those moments before,
when, for once, the Earth revolved
at our own pace; to those moments
after, we felt something slip
through our fingers, felt the parties
and the stomach pumps and those
inevitable, hellish orgies evaporate
into what-nows, into sad bagel din-
ners at home with your unopened
Swiffer Sweeper and a red solo
cup of recently expired milk. (Just
me?)
We
were
Alderaan,
were
100,000 voices crying out in terror
and suddenly going silent.
(The Pile. The Pile. The Pile.)
And I cared too much — about
this game, about that week-long
quasi-relationship, about the size
of my Adam’s Apple (my neck looks
like a snake swallowing a foot).
Why can’t I care about some-
thing important? Like Sudan! Or
even South Sudan!
But the pile isn’t polite. It doesn’t
knock first. It bursts in, dropkicks
your crotch and forgets to call your
Mom. Loves, losses, suspiciously
small ears? Depression doesn’t
make sense, and it doesn’t take
orders. It’s a real prick. (Just like
Sudanese dictator Omar al-Bashir.
Asshat.)
Twenty minutes later, still fro-
zen in the stands, my friend Cath-
erine turned to me.
Catherine: “What now?”
Me: “Now ... we rebuild.”
So we did.
We walked to Fleetwood Diner
where we stared at our reflections
and examined our consciences.
Catherine asked, “Do you feel any-
thing yet?”
“Not since Thursday, no.” I ate
my ham in one bite and pretended
not to choke a little.
At 9 p.m., we went to our friend
Clare’s apartment, where we vent-
ed to Finnegan, her pet pig.
“Oh, Finnegan,” I said. “Some-
times, I feel like you: Small. Pink.
Constantly peeing. Never sure
if I’m allowed in the bedroom.”
Finnegan nodded and bid me rub
his tum-tum.
Feeling nihilistic, I downloaded
Tinder and matched with a lady
named Cleotilde who asked me
to text her my “favorite position,
cutie.”
I answered: “Shortstop.”
Finnegan snorted and bur-
rowed his snout in my crotch. “Oh,
Finnegan! You naughty pig you!
You make me feel wanted.”
At 10:52 p.m., we laughed about
something. I can’t remember what,
but it was probably something I
said. Yeah.
At 11:30 p.m., we called an Uber
(Can you relate now, heathens!) to
take us to the State for a midnight
showing of “They Live” (which, I
know, makes me sound “refined”
and “nifty.” To that, I say: Thanks,
dude. I also have a picture of Tom
Hanks on my fridge. Change your
bermudas, ladies).
Never seen “They Live”? Know
this: it’s the greatest 80s movie
about a drifter finding a pair of sun-
glasses that show him the world is
taken over and run by undercover
aliens since “Flashdance.”
(Disclaimer:
Never
seen
“Flashdance,” but I have seen that
one part where the water goes
Woooosh-sploooosh-splash
on
Jennifer Beals’s boobies.)
I watched, laughed, forgot his-
tory, and walked Catherine home.
Then walked myself home.
In Kerrytown, a girl in paja-
mas stood outside and yelled at an
imaginary man ... or maybe I just
couldn’t see him behind the tree?
Nah. Imaginary. I missed the lock
with my key, decided to put that in
this column and, once inside, part-
ed my hair the other way because
life is too short not to know. (I sort
of looked like Jennifer Beals. Or
Lincoln Chafee.)
I sat on my sweet-ass, fucking
awesome red couch and remem-
bered all that’d happened, all I’d
forgotten: My pile.
My hair, humor, body, jaw. My
thoughts, motives, malice, fears,
farts, dreams, doubts, posters,
penis, writing, wrists, sweaters,
saliva, nose, knees, voice, and the
way I say, “Chic(aw)go.” That split,
that loss, this baby raccoon – Wait,
what are you doing! Get out of here,
you! Varmint! Shoo! Shoo!
We cope with our pile, with our
nuggets of pain. And it is painful.
And there’s no reason for it, no
secret to being so, so not there. But
in our best moments, we behold our
own pile and say, “This is my bad-
ness and my rot and I am proud. So
suck it.”
At 3 a.m., I cocooned myself
in my ex-girlfriend’s blanket and,
nearly smiling, fell asleep.
It’s my pile.
Another Thing: I blew up like Alderaan
B Y A L E X B E R N A R D
LUNA ANNA ARCHEY/DAILY
THOUGHT
BUBBLE