I don’t know about all of you, but I’m pretty glad to be back in Madison. Time off is great and all; it lets you hang loose a bit, catch up on sleep. But being at home can be super boring.
There’s no way I’m the only person who gets this distinct—it isn’t precisely an angry or useless, more like a sickly—feeling whenever I consecutively sleep longer than two weeks in my childhood bed. It’s kind of like if vertigo and deja vu had an unprotected threesome with the movie “National Treasure”—just bad news. I guess, despite all my rage, I’ll never be Nicholas Cage. If you fully understand that reference you’re probably laughing but also pretty easy to entertain based on your pre-existing knowledge of pop culture. But look at who’s talking, right? It’s hard to write a paragraph without making some random interjection with yourself.
I mean, don’t get me wrong; I really enjoy hanging out with my parents and excessively playful dogs, but after a month it starts driving my 20-year-old mind slightly insane. I’m not entirely sure what causes it. It probably isn’t very funny though, so I’ll spare you all an uncomfortably acute and in-depth self-assessment. However, what you may find hilarious are the stupid ways I choose to occupy my time.
While most things in life can sort of be proven as mundane if you really put some effort into it (I guess few pessimists really ever consider the obviously paradoxical triteness in trying to argue that your actions are pointless), my hometown pastimes don’t need much additional insight to reveal their incredible banality.
Unless you’re in a coma or one of those people that TLC makes out to be a total freak (excuse me if I’m forgetting or offending you), sitting on your ass day in and day out is tough. This natural phenomenon has gotten me into plenty of (possibly) unnecessary trouble over the years.
Despite my initial regrets, I usually end up with a sweet little something that makes people laugh. And alas, there is one tale in particular from this most recent break off of school that I will forever proudly show off in my arsenal of superbly dumb stories. Let me indulge you:
There are two hookah bars near my house in Illinois—some of you sadder suburbanites have probably been patrons at these establishments-—one is called Inhale and the other is X-hale. Naturally, I had to hit both locations in the same night, sort of a yin-yang type thing, except it was more like hell-hell.
OK, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve ingested a lot of tobacco products in my life: cigarettes, cigars, cigarillos, hookah, snus, snuff (do e-cigs count?)—I even have this nifty wooden pipe I whip out at special occasions. Anyway, you get the idea; the list is pretty all-inclusive. But three-straight hours of hookah was by far the most painful experience I’ve ever had with the stuff.
I don’t really know why I decided this would be a good idea (see above section, I suppose). Maybe it was some inherent desire to find out which really came first: the inhale or the exhale. Well, if curiosity didn’t kill the cat, it certainly mutated a few cells.
The weird thing about hookah is that it always seems like it’ll be a ton of fun before you start smoking it. I always think, “Oh, yeah let’s smoke some hookah! I’ll blow some of the little smoke-rings and sit around feeling super cool!” This honeymoon period is pretty short.
The withdrawal symptoms of an all-out hookah binge are unexpectedly unpleasant. By the time all was said and done, basically my entire facial region was uncomfortably numb. But hey, when desperation sinks in, I’ll pretty much do anything that’s in the name of not doing nothing.
This was the Crown Jewel of my break’s stupidity. Hey, that’d be a good name for a hookah bar!
How was your break? Email Andy at holsteen@dailycardinal.com and maybe you guys can chat over a smoke.
