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. It runs weekly, on Fridays. 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 28, 1997

So there I was, waiting outside my house for my 9:36 ride to pick me up when I remembered who was probably waiting a mere two blocks down the line.

Monica and I haven’t really talked much since I let her in on the little secret of spring break and how women just aren’t welcome to join in the time-honored ritual of male bonding.

I couldn’t believe that she was upset with me just because I told her, while it was nothing personal, that I did not want her, under any circumstance, to come along as we toured the western U.S. for a week and a half.

We’ve been somewhat dating for a month, give or take a few weeks, and she has always told me to be completely honest with her even if I think it might upset her.

So, one can imagine my surprise when she got pissed off at me simply because I told her that there was no way in hell that she could come along with Eddie and me.

That’s what honesty gets you any more — a swift kick in the shin, the silent treatment and a glass of beer over your head (which is a game I’m really getting tired of).

Anyway, back to the bus stop.

Unbridled fear gripped my body as the purple chariot pulled up to the corner and I knew that in a matter of minutes, we would be picking up Monica two stops down.

Bringing up the back of the line of riders piling on the bus, I realized it was going to be a tight squeeze when the driver announced, “You gotta keep moving back, people,” and the masses stayed still.

So I watched-my-step right on the bus and pushed my semester pass (and current fee card) past the two people crammed in front of me and realized that my dreams had come true.

I was actually riding shotgun.

I’m not talking about standing safely behind the yellow line with your butt in the face of those riding in the seats normally reserved for the elderly and the handicapped.

No sir.

I’m not even speaking of the rare occasion that someone is allowed on the we’re-talking-danger side of the yellow line to stand right next to the driver hoping that the little get-your-transfer-ticket-here stand won’t collapse if an emergency occurs.

Not even close.

What I’m talking about is standing on the entry stairs staring down death while daring the gods of mass transit to enforce their safety warnings through some horrific ordeal as you stand without straps, railings or sidebars on the stairs where no sensible rider with enough sense to fear and respect the laws of nature would dare stand.

At any moment, those doors could open up leaving all chance of human survival up to sheer strength and determination while one fights the forces of air pressure that are trying to suck the unsuspecting frail body out into the heartless vacant abyss that we call Lincoln Way.

When something like that happens, they can only hope to identify a person through eye-witnesses and the person’s fee card.

Which is why (little known fact) that they’re so tough on that “current semester” rule. It’s for our own good and that of our mourning families.

So there I was, feeling like I was Iowa State’s own Keanu Reeves keeping an eye on the road ahead while I waited for some mad man to blow the bus if the speedometer even fluttered above 25 miles per hour for a mere second.

I tried to comfort the confused driver who, while not as attractive, was a hell of a lot better navigator than Sandra Bullock as he frantically yelled, “Get on or drop off?? Get on or drop off??”

Just as I was trying to decide whether to smash someone’s cellular phone or handcuff the impatient bastard that pulled the dinger thinger three times before his stop, I heard a voice from the gods attempt to calm my nerves.

“Can I have your attention, please? The next stop is State Gym/Beyer Hall, transfer point to Green and Red routes.”

As I wiped the beads of sweat from my brow, I realized that I had done my door-guarding duty well and we had made it safely to another day on campus and no one had died on my watch.

Just then I realized that amidst all the death-defying heroics and threats of bus-targeted terrorism, I hadn’t even noticed that we were too jam-packed to pick up Monica.

Then again, I don’t know which would be worse: spending my last few moments on this earth dragging from the blown out remnants of the door to the bus or attempting to understand and soothe a woman’s scorn for spring break.

Pop quiz, hot shot.