Friday, October 23, 1998
Night creature seeks refuge from daylight’s malicious glare
COLUMN: Alcohol, drugs make student question life, relate to
KISS songs
Oh, the horror of waking up bloated after a night of chili and
beer. The terrifying reality of downing three shots of espresso and
a cup of coffee after a not-so-settling Greek omelette. And the day
has yet to begin.
As the sun creeps its emblazoning tendrils into the living room
safe-haven, squawking birds mock your efforts at physical
recovery.
"Be gone, foul heathens," you cry. But not even your devil of a
cat pays heed to your words of misery. Like the sly manifestation
of evil sorcery she embodies, your cat merely slithers closer to
your side of the carpet.
"Pet me. Now. On the belly," she demands, gripping you in her
spell. "Yes, that’s it, my fat, grey furry belly. Pet it, oh slave
to my treacherous feline needs. Your efforts at resistance are
nothing in comparison to the dark power I wield. And scratch my
neck while you’re at it."
Oh, the subjugation! Oh the disgrace of obedience on this black
day! But what can be done to amend the wrongs incurred upon you in
this early morning hangover state?
Candy. Lots of candy. Not to eat straight off, but just to
have.
Really huge chocolate bars and entire rolls of sweet tarts. Just
to make the other kids jealous, see? And an enormous pumpkin,
carved more intricately than those of the neighbors.
Wait, you’re regressing. The mind aches in confusion.
Self-produced chemicals mesh with peculiar hormones. Nothing seems
clear. A strange transformation appears to be taking place. Are
your nails growing longer and your teeth sharper or is it a mad
delusion?
Is it the drugs wearing off or just now taking effect or is it
… no, it couldn’t be. You’ve spent too many years toiling over
books and papers to have reached this end. But yes, it appears you
are becoming … a creature of the night!
No longer convinced that the work efforts put in by day in
windowless office cubicles will amount to anything worthwhile, you
hunt down mind-enhancing toxins once the sun sinks low in the
smoggy sky. Joining your legions of reality-questioning ghouls, you
ponder the effectiveness of the encompassing social system. The
time structure in place carries less meaning than the confines of
your physical being. Only sound and thought penetrate your senses,
and you realize that you must adhere to the immortal words of the
ancient gurus, KISS :
"I’m, gonna rock ‘n’ roll all night, and party every day."
A swarm of emotion attacks your weak-livered soul as you
collapse in a state of inebriated bliss.
"Yes, I will become a rock star and travel the world in search
not of truth, meaning or a heightened spiritual consciousness, but
a most excellent good time," you wail contentedly. "This is my true
destiny. All the rest is pure rot."
Wading through the sea of fellow students on campus, you detach
yourself from their petty conversations. You hear the woman working
the Republican party table on Bruin Walk chuckle gap-toothedly to a
fellow table worker, "Did I startle ya? Ha, ha."
"My God, what are these rodents doing everywhere," you gasp.
"The campus is over-run with rats! And mindless single-celled
organisms perambulating the walkways in circles!" Circles wrap
around in front of my eyes and weave rings of torture throughout my
head, constricting the brain cells and suffocating my coherent
stream of thought.
But the living nightmare knows no end. Even with the hope of a
rock-star existence to hold to, you cannot maintain sanity.
You tumble mercilessly into the Vortex! Vortex! Vortex! And
smash your head like a molding pumpkin into another flickering
dawn.
VanderZanden plans to be Pez Girl for Halloween, with a giant,
blood-covered, cardboard pez piece popping out of her neck reading,
"Dear God, Please Make Me Dead."Vanessa VanderZanden
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