Editor’s note: The following is a continuing journal of a fictional college student. It is intended to be a humorous and enjoyable feature about an average Joe. Though written by Iowa State’s own Scott Jacobson, a Daily staff writer, people, places and events detailed below are not analogous to a real student.

August 27, 1999

So there I was, talking to the cops on my front porch after someone from across the street complained that I was hosting a “yelling party,” when I realized that I was being given a ticket for being five decibels over the posted limit at 11:15 p.m. on the back-to-school Friday night.

I was simply holding a small gathering to welcome Chet back from his summer in Minneapolis, but Ames’ finest decided it was time to shut us down, despite the fact that there were couches burning across the street and drunk minors bumping and grinding down the block.

It wasn’t a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

And that was the poetic justice that brought my summer to a close.

The last three months have been the perfect example of bittersweet irony. And even if they haven’t, that sounds pretty profound and poetic.

It’s been a summer of ups and downs. I met Troy Aikman at Westminster Abbey to begin my break, but then Dan Quayle introduced himself to me to finish things off. We finally got air conditioning in our apartment, but we had to disconnect every other electrical gadget that we own — including our neon lights and beer fridges.

But the biggest ride on the emotional roller coaster was when I gained a lifetime of memories during a month in Europe but lost my girlfriend along the way.

All was well with Taylor when school got out, but we had to have “a talk” shortly thereafter.

I was getting ready to head to London for a month, she was set to begin her internship in Atlanta, and we knew things were going to get tough.

In a perfect world, we would have called it quits only to meet in an airport two weeks later as we each prepared our journey to rekindle the flames of our passion.

But life isn’t a Mentos commercial.

So we decided to stop seeing each other.

Actually, there wasn’t much decision to it. With me in England and her in Georgia, the chances of us renting a movie and snuggling up for the night were pretty slim.

Yeah, we could call and write and e-mail and stuff, but we decided to take a break. And though we didn’t say we’d see other people, I’m pretty sure it was implied. Or inferred. Or just inevitable.

She went with me to the airport, we said our good-byes and such and I hopped on the plane without a clue as to where things were headed.

Upon my return from the UK, Chet and Eddie tried to cheer me up and get me hooked up with other ladies, but it didn’t seem to work.

I wanted to call Taylor, but we’d promised that we wouldn’t contact each other. For three months, I looked at the picture of us that Sydney took one night when we were dancing at Mug Night and realized one harsh truth.

I’m whipped.

I’m not proud of it, but in the three months we were apart, I couldn’t turn on my Mac-Daddy vibe.

When she got back last week, she gave me a call from her new apartment. I wanted to tell her about my summer of loyal solitude, but we also promised not to share what happened — good or bad — over the summer. So it was pretty much a bunch of blah, blah, blah, this, that and the other.

I’m starting to not like promises so much.

But this weekend, we’re going to go see Barenaked Ladies in Chicago. Actually, there’s two dozen of us, but Taylor and I have tickets by each other. It’s a start.

With so many of us going, we were thinking about renting an old yellow school bus or Winnebago, but the girls are heading out today whereas we’ve got a Bocce tournament all day. It’s all about priorities.

So Sunday morning, the 15 guys are leaving Ames in six different vehicles, and the trip to the Windy City will be our own version of the Cannonball Run. We don’t have an ambulance or Lambourghini, but Eddie did make a Captain Chaos mask and cape.

I just hope we don’t get a speeding ticket because I just got done pleading guilty to a noise violation, and I’ve paid my fine and seen my name in print.

And aside from an all-night game of Red Rover, I still have no idea what a “yelling party” is.