It's 5:07 am on the West Coast and I'm somewhere on Route 95 going 90 in the dark.
For full effect, download "Broken Crown" by Mumford & Sons, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
Nacho Libre: "When you are a man, sometimes you wear stretchy pants in your room. It's for fun."
Me: "When you are a college recruiter sitting on four hours sleep due to a red eye road trip and a 4:15 hotel wake up call, sometimes you talk to your phone to make sure your eyes stay open for 90 minutes in the car. It's for fun."
Yes, I just quoted the only Jack Black movie I have ever had the ability to watch without wanting to poke my eyes out with a paper clip, and no it does not make any sense nor have any relevance to anything I'm writing about but at this point when all I'm looking at are the yellow painted lines whizzing by to my left and the hairline of a mountain range silhouetted to my right, sometimes completely random comparisons between drowsy higher education situations and comedies about a Mexican wrestler are the best therapy to keep me from crashing headfirst into the oncoming semi.
In a few hours I'm going to be knee deep in procrastinating lip rings and twitterpated pimples wandering around like cloned sheep drones named Dolly trying to understand the meaning of their lives. I'll be saying the same seven sentences to all of them. Encouraging their hopes of a college degree, offering sage words of advice about how to get the most out of their financial aid application, and using filler statements with their counselors to talk about important things like weather patterns.
Kids, this has been my life for the last five years. And I've loved it, I really have. Maybe not the plastic imitations for ham and cheese sandwiches that college fairs pose as refreshments, or the case of Bed Bugs I contracted from some hotel in Boise, or the 4:15 wake up calls from the front desk this morning, but all the rest I have adored more than any movie not starring Jack Black. The people, the places, the half-empty gas stations, the baggage claim counters, the hometown diners, the class presentations, the long distance romances, the audiobooks at three in the morning, all the stories that have made up my life since I turned to chapter 25. I know I've been in lesbians with it all.
Wallace Wells: "No, the other L word."
Anyway, don't ask where this Muse of recollection is coming from. I sure as Shirley can't explain my thought process this early in the morning. For all I know I'm hallucinating this whole blogpost and my body is hanging out the front of a shattered windshield in some ditch on the side of the road somewhere in between Fort Mohave and Boulder City. I have no idea at this point. The only thing I know is that my cars a runnin', I've got a Dew in one hand, and a steering wheel in the other, being serenaded by the posterity of Mumford, and flying down route 95 to go sell my school to a fresh batch of kids.
You can't paint a better picture than that.