Gotten to Cornell you strongly thought it was the real you who revealed up: the intellectual poet, able to drink and fuck all night and discuss it the next day. Professors and students alike would be captivated by your artistic soul. You d have a varied peer group, one that would value you in all your complex magnificence.
Sadly, the excellent vibes would be short lived. Ends up a lot of the trainees were not as keen about your iconoclast personalities as you were. Instead of changing your video game, you glommed onto a set of likeminded outsiders: an incredibly rich Mexican named Ricardo and a fellow Chicagoan, Billy from the difficult streets of Bridgeport.
Regardless of coming from the huge city, you took pleasure in the smallness of the school along with the town. In Mt. Vernon there were only 2 bars, one for the students and the other for locals, primarily farmers who used their dirty tractor caps with pride. Having actually had ample experience navigating dichotomies, it was simple moving from one base to the other. In numerous methods, you preferred the local atmosphere, indulging in its credibility, establishing a growing appreciation genuine ladies who worked for a living as opposed to the entitled women who didnt.
Not surprisingly, you adored collegiate academics, taking to literature and approach like a fish to water. Math sucked however you d constantly hated that subject anyway.
These acts endeared you to nobody. It was your seduction of a pretty coed that ultimately caused you the most sorrow. A small campus, word spread fast that you d made the most of this bad woman. Soon, you were blackballed from celebrations. A footballer threatened you, declaring he d kick your ass if he ever saw you with her again. Not a concern as women no longer wanted anything to do with you. In your dorms restroom somebody composed unflattering graffiti about you, highlighted by a similarly demeaning portrait. You had long hippie hair, a sleazy mustache and an earing. Behind you was the horizon of Chicago, lest anyone be confused.
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Clearly, you d overstayed your welcome.
Next year, you would attend the University of Wisconsin in Madison, a far bigger, notoriously liberal, more edgy environment, where your kind, whatever that was, might thrive.
At the last minute you ended up accepting the lone invitation you d been fortunate enough to receive: from a miniscule liberal arts school in Mt. Vernon, Iowa. It had less trainees than your house had tenants.
You almost pulled it off.
At the last minute you ended up accepting the only invitation you d been lucky enough to receive: from a miniscule liberal arts school in Mt. Vernon, Iowa. It had fewer trainees than your house had tenants. Professors and trainees alike would be captivated by your creative soul. In Mt. Vernon there were just two bars, one for the trainees and the other for locals, mostly farmers who wore their unclean tractor caps with pride. Turns out many of the trainees were not as keen about your iconoclast personae as you were.
You wrote sordid poetry, savoring how it provoked your less sophisticated classmates. You were a provocateur, like Bukowski. Now here was a role you could delight in.
In your eyes, you were The Three Amigos! The Three Musketeers! Others certainly saw you as The Three Stooges. However so what? As a trio, you delighted in the virtue of your minority status. Using it to mesmerize the virtue of others. The Three Amigos produced a makeshift gambling empire, taking bets on horse races tallied from the paper. Drunk and high, The Three Musketeers took a cars and truck in Iowa City and for excellent procedure rolled it straight into a pond in the center of school.