Aristotle's vacation wear
This past Saturday was homecoming. My friend Logan decided to throw a toga party at his appartment, which is right across from the football field. Thus, we had a perfect view of the game. My room-mate and I decided that this would be worth attending, and so we went to a fabric store and purchased our cloth. I picked out a sort of Hawaiian surfer pattern, while Greg picked up a sort of silk international flag pattern. Logan, our ever-gracious host, had provided us with a root beer keg, and some awesome barbeque. The game was aweful, but we had a good time. Greg and I tied for best toga, for which we were awarded 10 bucks at Starbucks. Not too shabby, in my opinion.

That night was the homecoming dance. I decided to go. Boy was that a mistake. First of all, I didn't actually go with anybody. Second of all, I only knew a few people. Thus, while most people were shaking their booties with their friends, I was stuck in the middle of a large unpleasant crowd. One thing I have noticed is that it seems as though I have some sort of sign that says, contrary to my wishes, "Please, if you are a large unpleasant male, encroach upon my personal space." Seriously, no matter where I chose to plant myself, invariably some guy would come along and just start gyrating and convulsing (Whitworth for dancing) with some girl next to me. Of course, it isn't the girl who encroaches, but rather her obnoxious guy friend. Thus, I get shafted. At which point, bitterness kicked in and my Nietzschean tendencies came to the forefront. My disdain for the herd of unwashed masses became almost palpable as I stood there sneering at the crowded dance floor. I'm thinking this is the last time I go to a dance alone. It's not healthy for me.