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.

February 26, 1999

So there I was, slowly swaying to “Dancing Lucinda,” enjoying a surprisingly romantic Friday night with Taylor, when my soul was struck by divine intervention, and I decided that the moment had arrived for me to tell her how much I liked her but liked her more than a friend likes another friend that he likes to be friends with.

Or something like that. But with more charm.

Just as I was leaning back to break the news that would launch our love life into orbit, some jackass bumped into me and spilled his drink down my sleeve.

Soaked, sticky and a little disgruntled, I turned to have words with the guy who couldn’t hold his liquor when suddenly I was face to face with a nasty blast from the past.

I was speechless, but his eyes lit up and words started spilling from his mouth faster than his Long Island had fallen from his glass.

“Oh my god! I haven’t seen you forever. Didn’t you used to date my sister Monica?”

“Hey Shaggy, how’s it going?”

“Damn, man, you’re still around? Weren’t you like a tenth-year senior when I graduated from high school?”

“Fifth-year, Shag. And I’m in grad school now.”

“Grad school, huh? Couldn’t find a job? Or is it that you couldn’t give up mug nights and spring breaks? Man, you were crazy back in the day. I still remember some of that stuff you used to tell me about. Naked sledding with a garbage bag. Overnight road trips to Texas. Stripping down and swimming laps in that fountain in front of the Union. All that stuff.”

“I think you’re exaggerating a bit there, Shaggy.” I turned and shrugged my shoulders to Taylor, who, not to my surprise, was a little confused by all of this.

“No, no. I remember the conversation pretty clearly. You were telling my parents all of this philosophical crap, but all of it revolved around stories in which you either ended up naked or covered in mud. Or both.”

My definition of hell used to be driving down the Kansas Turnpike with a full bladder and an empty tank of gas. No longer.

My revised definition is reliving my own myths and legends with my ex-girlfriend’s brother, whose real name I still can never remember, while my current romantic interest stands by, shaking her head in disbelief while her mental imagery goes wild. All this while I’m standing there in a sopping wet rayon shirt that reeks of cheap gin, rum, vodka, tequila, triple sec, sweet and sour, 7-up and Coke. But then again, that’s a pretty common definition.

I decided to change the focus of the conversation.

“So, what have you been up to Shaggy? How’s life been treating you?”

“Oh man, where do I start? When was the last time I talked to you?”

“It’s been a while.” I glanced over at Taylor who was getting bored quickly.

“Wasn’t it like two Thanksgivings ago? God, I was just a freshman then.”

Yeah, and now, he’s a sophomore. That’s a real quantum leap.

“That’s right,” he continued. “Isn’t that when Monica told you about…”

“Well, all right Shaggy, it’s been nice talking to you. Hope to see you around sometime.”

“Yeah, cool. Hey, I’ll tell my sister hi from you. She’ll get a kick out of that.”

The last sounds I heard from him were laughter. Kids these days.

At that point, I didn’t feel much like sticking around the show. Anyways, they had just brought some poor guy up on stage and had him crowd surfing against his will. Bloody savages.

As I started to explain the whole Monica-Shaggy thing to Taylor, she just shook her head and said she didn’t want to hear it. What’s in the past is in the past and if I used to dive down snowy hills in December with nothing to protect myself from the elements but a Hefty Lawn and Leaf bag, then that’s my business.

To that, I just smiled and said, “Well, that’s cool, I guess.” I opened the door for her, and we walked out of the bar just as a pair of Ames’ finest were walking in.

Feeling a bit mischievous, I stopped one of them and told them about some drunk 20-year-old that was spilling mixed drinks all over everyone inside.

I gave them a pretty good description; I just wish I could remember his him.