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.

January 17, 1997

So there I was, reflecting upon the year gone by with crepe paper wrapped around 90 percent of my body and a half-bottle of champagne in each hand singing, “That’s What Friends are For” by Dionne Warwick and her psychic friends.

As I was getting mildly lit up in the spirit of the holidays, I thought back to the ghosts of semester past and realized that somewhere, something got a little crazy wack funky.

I met a girl who had a case of love at first beer and I was thinking that life was like an ’80s soft-rock love song.

I spent hours upon days staring at a damn phone that wouldn’t ring while eating cold Hamburger Helper and watching eight episodes of “Saved By The Bell” a day. No wonder I was a wreck.

I could name the exact outcome of each episode including guest stars (Kasey Kasem being the most often) just by watching the first few moments and judging the time frame by Zack’s hairdo, tone of voice, and whether his pant legs were cuffed and rolled.

That’s all about to change. With the new year, I’ve sworn to myself that I’m going to be a better me.

The first step is to improve my diet to be more health conscious by sticking to light beer and mixed drinks as opposed to Bud heavy.

Second, I’m finally going to get back in the shape I was in before my freshman 15 and sophomore 60 set in. No more sitting on the couch all day flipping back and forth between “CHiPs” and old Corey Feldman movies with a plate of pizza rolls by my side.

No sir. In 1997, if I want to change the channel, I’m going to get up off my ass and walk across the room to switch stations. If I can’t muster that much energy, then I deserve to watch Jenny Jones for an hour.

Also, I’m going to check out these Super High-Tech Perfect Ab Sculpting Roller Gliders that I’ve been seeing everywhere. Granted, I’m not actually going to buy one, but I’ll watch the whole infomercial intently and think of how many inches I could be losing.

It’s a guilt-trip thing.

Finally, I’m not going to spend as much money at the bars this semester. While it may sound like a far-fetched plan, I figure it can work if I just do a couple simple things.

First, no going out on Sundays or Mondays any more. The first couple weeks will be hard, but I’ll have to go cold turkey.

Second, I’ll only hit bars with specials:ÿtwo-fers, mugs, buck night, happy hour, quarter draws, bottomless cups and the grand daddy of them all — free beer.

Anyway, before I could test out any of these new resolutions, I had to cleanse myself of all my demons. And lucky for me, they’ve invented a perfect night for that: New Year’s Eve.

So there I was, sharing a bottle of champagne with 30 of my closest friends I’d just met getting ready for the final countdown when I realized a terrible, terrible thing.

Ain’t nobody around to smoochee-smooch when the ball drops!

There are a few laws of nature that must be followed for one’s life to be meaningful: You have to close your eyes when you sneeze; you have to shed a tear when Goose dies in Top Gun and you must, by all means, must give someone a kiss when the new year breaks.

With one song left before midnight, I started eyeing the crowd like a desperate parent looking for Tickle Me Elmo, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that I was about to be left hanging when Auld Long Song kicks in or whatever it’s called.

Then as the D.J. started telling everyone to raise their bottles/glasses/clothing in the air, I began moseying off the dance floor, preparing to admit a sad, sad defeat.

But at the moment the crowd screamed “Happy New Year,” one of life’s little miracles occurred.

Just as I hit the edge of the dance floor, I was spun around in place and a girl that reeked of perfume and long islands (in a good way) planted one of the longest, wettest kisses known to man upon my lips.

When the embrace ended, she opened her eyes, looked at me and said in a beautiful voice with a hint of surprise, “Oh Dear God!! I thought you were my husband!!”

Not exactly the affectionate dialogue I expected, but I just played it cool, nodded and said “No problem … happens all the time.”

And then I strolled off into the proverbial sunset and remembered the classic love story exit line:

Always leave them wanting to sue.