Every Spring Quarter I turn to page 2 of The Post to find a teary-eyed columnist reminiscing about everything they will miss about Athens. Don't get me wrong, there's plenty I'll miss about this happy college town, but who wants to hear about that?
Here's everything I won't miss about Athens.
Hookups 8, 14 and 27 of my college career:
I like to think I have a Ph.D. in ex-hookup relations, but there are a few roaming the streets that make things a bit awkward. And it usually gets worse when they find me hiding behind a barstool.
The last thing I want when I'm at a bar is a constant reminder of my beer goggles that ruins my buzz. It's like a Vietnam vet having to watch a slow-motion, instant replay of a bullet shattering his kneecap. And I have enough purple hearts to outfit an entire army of Tin Men.
The black stuff on the dance floor of The Cheese:
For those of you who never knew The Cheese, allow me to explain and apologize for your sexual frustration. It was a cheap, dirty bar where virtually anything (NRA memberships, Bazooka Joe comics, cereal coupons, etc.) qualified as 21-year-old identification. The place was so crowded on Wednesdays that a Navy SEAL couldn't make it through without getting burnt by a cigarette.
After 4 years of deliberations, my research team has determined the black substance is a mixture of quarter drafts, sweat and make-out slobber. It is also directly linked to fun, but I won't miss scrubbing it out of my Air Force Ones.
The Dress-Up Dolls:
I'm sick and tired of the people whose clothing costs more than the Gross National Product of most third-world countries. You're going to a dirty bar in Athens, not a movie premiere in Manhattan. Besides, you're wearing a button-down shirt that costs $100 with Wal-Mart flip-flops that sell for 99 cents.
And for you men who wear bright pinks and soft yellows, get a clue. You're forgetting one important fashion accessory and you wear it between your legs.
Pocket Vibrators
There's only one thing used on this campus more than condoms, credit cards and co-eds — cell phones. You can't walk more than 10 feet on this campus without seeing an idiot rambling on a cell phone.
Shut up! No one wants to hear a play-by-play account of your walk from Alden to the ATM. And if one more Brady Bunch theme song ring goes off in class, I'm going to flip. How am I supposed to concentrate on my crossword?
Blackouts
There's nothing worse than waking up next to a classmate, a tennis ball and a half-eaten can of Del Monte peaches after a long night of drinking. You're left to piece together the rest of your evening like a cross between Matlock and an investigator on CSI. You search for your last available memory and work forward. That leaves three hours.
You look for any evidence of bodily fluids and try to figure out how you slept for 12 hours in the sink while standing on your head. Your underwear is floating in the toilet, and if you're lucky there are no incriminating marks. And to make matters worse, your head hurts like a hammer blow to the gonads.
You can't remember anything, and your friends are way too happy to help.
"Dude, you were going to town on the lamp shade when you fell off the table and into the trash can. So we just put you in the front yard. Wanna see some pictures?"
Rent
With the money I've spent on rent the last two years, I could have purchased a Dodge Neon or Pamela Anderson's left boob. Instead, I got to live in a house that would have made Survivor contestants cry and Bob Villa crap on his tool belt. And now, I'm losing my security deposit because the living room windows shattered when I farted in the kitchen. Thanks, landlords.
The College Gate Prostitutes
Just once, I want to walk through College Gate without getting harassed like a middle-schooler at R. Kelly's birthday party. I really don't care about saving the Meigs County tree frogs or supporting the OU underwater cycling team. I just want to walk peacefully on College Green and witness some squirrel humping too explicit for the Discovery Channel.
Wilkinson is a senior journalism major whose tears are falling on the words of his last column. Send your final e-mails to him at n8wilk@hotmail.com
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Nate Wilkinson
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Nate Wilkinson
