![I haven’t been up to many public musings/story tellings lately (instead I’ve reserved them for private entertainment for my lucky close friends [they hate me]), so I asked for random prompts on Facebook and Twitter to get started again. Or whatever.
My former office neighbor from my NPR Music intern days, Lars, suggested simply, “bees.” So here is a post about bees.
In August 2006, I moved into my nondescript concrete cell with two idiot girls from small towns just outside Gainesville, Fla. OK, that is not nice. Only one was an idiot, but I didn’t much like either of them. Both held racist, vacant views of the world but the three of us foraged a temporary bond through alcohol and The O.C.—against all odds.
We settled into routines and branched out. I met a lot of wonderful people and spent as much time outside the dorm room as possible. The other two tended to hole up, abusing the microwave and binging on Nip/Tuck. They did not have a lot of friends besides each other, best I could tell. Even though the girls continued being generally awful, I tried to bring them out and be a pal to each. So I toted them along to a Halloween party.
If you went to UNF, you likely remember the Melrose apartment complex. If you did not, here is a quick run-down: Despite existing in a wealthy enough neighborhood, gunshots weren’t uncommon to hear in the parking lots. It was where you went to buy sketchy weed, pound grain alcohol Jell-O shots and/or meet someone with whom you may rub up against (who you could likely also count on to be secretly 38, a NARC or illegal in some way). It was busted and sucked but we were 18 and had no other choice. And it was where we were heading for Halloween festivities, like good boys and girls do.
I dressed as a bridesmaid, in junction with a theme I established with the rest of a “wedding party.” My roommates—let’s call them D and C—went as Sexy Strawberry Shortcake and Sexy Bumblebee, respectively. We stayed late, smoking menthol cigarettes and gargling banana rum. D even cleaned the host’s toilet before puking in it (I said they were insufferable, I didn’t say they had no manners). When allegations involving drunk girls and less drunk dudes surfaced, we split. I don’t remember who drove home but I do remember someone rode along in D’s white sedan’s trunk.
After the short trek home to The Crossings, D and C stumbled behind me in their heels. I led the way now barefoot. A few leftovers from Halloweens spent elsewhere or perhaps even in the campus woods lay draped across the iron benches. The sun began to inch above the horizon, glowing too bright already. It was then C adjusted her wilting Sexy Bumblebee wings and heaved, “Well. Alright.” D next dropped into a squat and decorated the sidewalk with her vomit.
It stayed out there for the next week.
Bees.
Got another prompt for me?](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbfp6sVPar1qz61f5o1_500.jpg)
I haven’t been up to many public musings/story tellings lately (instead I’ve reserved them for private entertainment for my lucky close friends [they hate me]), so I asked for random prompts on Facebook and Twitter to get started again. Or whatever.
My former office neighbor from my NPR Music intern days, Lars, suggested simply, “bees.” So here is a post about bees.
In August 2006, I moved into my nondescript concrete cell with two idiot girls from small towns just outside Gainesville, Fla. OK, that is not nice. Only one was an idiot, but I didn’t much like either of them. Both held racist, vacant views of the world but the three of us foraged a temporary bond through alcohol and The O.C.—against all odds.
We settled into routines and branched out. I met a lot of wonderful people and spent as much time outside the dorm room as possible. The other two tended to hole up, abusing the microwave and binging on Nip/Tuck. They did not have a lot of friends besides each other, best I could tell. Even though the girls continued being generally awful, I tried to bring them out and be a pal to each. So I toted them along to a Halloween party.
If you went to UNF, you likely remember the Melrose apartment complex. If you did not, here is a quick run-down: Despite existing in a wealthy enough neighborhood, gunshots weren’t uncommon to hear in the parking lots. It was where you went to buy sketchy weed, pound grain alcohol Jell-O shots and/or meet someone with whom you may rub up against (who you could likely also count on to be secretly 38, a NARC or illegal in some way). It was busted and sucked but we were 18 and had no other choice. And it was where we were heading for Halloween festivities, like good boys and girls do.
I dressed as a bridesmaid, in junction with a theme I established with the rest of a “wedding party.” My roommates—let’s call them D and C—went as Sexy Strawberry Shortcake and Sexy Bumblebee, respectively. We stayed late, smoking menthol cigarettes and gargling banana rum. D even cleaned the host’s toilet before puking in it (I said they were insufferable, I didn’t say they had no manners). When allegations involving drunk girls and less drunk dudes surfaced, we split. I don’t remember who drove home but I do remember someone rode along in D’s white sedan’s trunk.
After the short trek home to The Crossings, D and C stumbled behind me in their heels. I led the way now barefoot. A few leftovers from Halloweens spent elsewhere or perhaps even in the campus woods lay draped across the iron benches. The sun began to inch above the horizon, glowing too bright already. It was then C adjusted her wilting Sexy Bumblebee wings and heaved, “Well. Alright.” D next dropped into a squat and decorated the sidewalk with her vomit.
It stayed out there for the next week.
Bees.
Got another prompt for me?
