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.

March 26, 1999

So there I was, gnawing away on a log of summer sausage and a chunk of Colby Jack while laughing uncontrollably at Bobcat Goldthwait’s antics in “Police Academy II,” when I asked myself how I’d gotten to the peaceful state of life I was currently enjoying.

The answers seemed simple.

I stopped thinking about school, and I quit worrying about women.

School’s just a challenge. Women are a plague.

Take that Wednesday night, for example. It was a week and a half ago, and Chet and Sydney and Eddie and Melissa had planned to do some night-golf thing right outside of Phoenix.

Ideally that would leave Taylor and me alone for an intimate evening of meat and cheese and Steve Guttenberg sequels. Such wasn’t the case.

Rewind for a moment to the second night we were in Phoenix. The girls had gone out clubbing. All I could think of were little baby seals and prehistoric dating rituals. Turns out they meant hitting the dance bars of Phoenix for a night, so they got prettied up and headed out.

Chet and Eddie and I stayed home and played cards in the hot tub. Sure, we went through eight decks of cards because Eddie kept trying to drown the queen of spades, but we had a good time.

That night, Taylor met this guy. His name was Anton, more like David Letterman’s drummer Anton than that bitter old man Dirty Steve Anton, but I knew I didn’t like him from the minute she mentioned his name.

They had danced and talked and blah blah blah and then they kissed and danced and yada yada yada and now they had plans for the next night. I didn’t want to hear about it.

For two months I’d been falling in like with this girl, and he sweeps her off her feet in less than two hours.

I suck.

All she could talk about when she got home was Anton this and Anton that and how she was looking forward to their date and how she wanted to look her best.

So Wednesday night came and Taylor was looking … well, too good for some dude named Anton and much better than most people’s bests. The other four had left for golfing already, so it was just me and Taylor.

She was wearing her black polyester pants and white form-fitting top that was like a tube top but covered her belly and came with sleeves that weren’t really attached so she put them on like a jacket that didn’t have a back.

I was wearing flannel pants and a long-johns shirt.

Fast forward back to Colby Jack and Bobcat and lifestyle choices. A few hours later, the third installment of the “Police Academy” saga was just ending and part four was set to start up when the door opened, and I could sense sadness sulking into the room.

She was dragging her purse behind her, her makeup had run from her eyes, and she was holding her sleeves in her hand. I don’t think the date went so well.

“Something wrong?” I asked in an obviously understated tone.

“Anton was mashing with another girl when I got there.” She didn’t even look up when she talked. “He’s a jerk. All guys are jerks. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to bed.”

“Well, hey, if you’re interested, ‘Police Academy’ is on. ‘Back In Training’ just got over, and ‘Citizens on Patrol’ is about to start.”

“All right, let me change really quick.”

Five minutes later, she came out and plopped in the recliner, and we ate cheese together and laughed at bad cinema.

We talked through most of “Assignment: Miami Beach” and fell asleep halfway through “City Under Siege,” but when I woke up on the couch in the morning, I looked over and there she was.

Curled up in my Cyclones blanket, wearing no make-up, just a 1991 Bulls championship T-shirt, slicky pants and a scrunchie, was when she looked her best.