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 7, 1997

So there I was, dancing on stage at last week’s F.A.C., spilling my mug of beer on the two girls that had dragged me up there and doing my best to sing along with Paul, when I saw her.

Across the room, with shoulder-length blonde hair and deep blue eyes, it was a modern-day goddess of a woman. A woman? Did you say a woman??

She was sitting on a bar stool being harrassed by this guy who thinks of himself as God’s gift to comedy and she looked a bit unimpressed.

I think his name’s John or Jim or something and it looked like he was telling the same old “So there’s this guy …” joke again.

Being the kind, sweet, caring superhero/teddy bear type that I am, I decided it was my duty as a gentleman to save her from this cruel and unusual punishment.

That and my mug was empty.

When I was about 10 feet from her, it hit me where I had seen this portrait of Americana beauty before. She takes Cy-Ride to campus the same time I do every day!

She’s my angel of the morning; she lights up my life, and every time I look at her I go blind.

And now, the fact that I get to save her from this John/Jim/Ira Stalker guy seems a bit ironic. Don’t you think?

What do I say to her?? I’ve never talked to her before, but I see her every single day when I don’t oversleep.

I’ve sat across from her and nervously avoided making eye contact as I pretend to read the paper. I’ve pardoned myself when my bag hits her in the head when I get out at the Design Center, even if it is just out of courtesy.

She’s stood with her butt in my face on several crowded days — I with mine in hers on others — and while that may sound like an intimate relationship to many, die-hard bus riders tolerate many days of staring at rear-ends.

So as I approached, sweating bullets from shear anxiety, a dozen introductory lines entered my feable mind, none of which seemed quite appropriate, such as:

“Hey, you know, I don’t think you look all that bad in the morning.”

Or, “I’ve always wanted to tell you I enjoy looking at your butt every day.”

Then there’s always “I just want you to know that I’m really glad you shower.”

And the final one to get the veto: “I bet you’ve got a great pass.”

So finally, just as John/Jim/Ira was starting to sing about how he misses QuikTrip, I just walked up beside her, not-so-accidentally bumped her shoulder (a little too hard, because it spilled her drink) and asked what I’m sure will go down in history as one of the greatest pick-up lines ever:

“Hey, uh … you ride the bus, don’t you?”

This Mac Daddy here is as smooth as sandpaper briefs and damn near as attractive. But at least the reply was positive.

“Well, yeah, I ride the 9:36 purple with you every morning and you skipped class on Monday.”

She’s good.

So there I was, having a delightful conversation with my new mass transit buddy while John/Jim/Ira was talking to himself about his origami buddies and she tells me her name is Monica.

The first thing I think of is that Courtney Cox plays Monica on “Friends” and she made her small-screen debut on the video for “Dancin’ in the Dark” which is a song by Springsteen who, according to Eddie’s cousin Chet from Nebraska, is the greatest musician ever to pen a song, so right there I figure there’s a chance for us.

Casually, I turned my back to her for a moment and pulled out the Sharpie marker from my pocket and wrote her name on my forearm remembering the trouble that Eddie got into when he met a girl and her name went from Denise to Dana to Jayna to Jenna to Jenny to Lisa all over the course of quarter draws.

Luckily, I was smarter than that and my marker was permanent and wouldn’t fade as I danced.

When the bar closed, I found my way home, sat on my couch, turned on the stereo, threw in the Gear Daddies, thought about the new twinkle in my eye and tattoo on my forearm, and giggled at the fact that I had charged eight drinks to John/Jim/Ira’s credit card.

Ahhh … life is good.