“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard

Thursday, August 21, 2003

For those of you who read my last post, and it’s subsequent comments, I would like to take the time to explain that it was sent to me by my favorite old college roommate Mr. Richard C. Sanders. I’d like to apologize to Rich for not mentioning his name in the earlier post. This was done because it has come to my attention that some people actually read this never ending stream of bullshit that I crank out, so I make an effort to not mention too much about any given person lest such information come back and haunt both of us.

In retrospect, I suppose I could have at least mentioned his name and the fact that he sent me the article about our mutual alma mater. So in an effort to make amends this post is dedicated to Rich.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I have many fond memories of college life, and Rich was present, if not outright responsible (sometimes in a legal sense) for said memories.

I remember like yesterday those November days when he and my brother would wake before dawn so as to get in as much pre-football drinking as possible. The shotguning, the beer bonging, the projectile vomiting. The sights, the sounds, the smells. These are the things I remember about Rich.

And more, I remember how he’d piss on the elevator of out college apt, how he’d piss out of our fourth floor window, and how he’d piss on anyone that came upstairs to complain that someone pissed on them from the fourth floor as they were walking in the front door. They are fond memories indeed.

And even more I remember the time he got so drunk at a WVU football game that he passed out and whacked his head on the aluminum bleachers so hard that he gashed open his forehead, right between his eyes. He wouldn’t let us take him to the hospital, I mean after all, that would have been like a five minute WALK. No, he insisted that I use super-glue to close the wound because he heard that the pro wrestler Sabu did it. Now, for those of you who question this, it has come to my attention that EMT personnel in some major cities are now employing the same technique, though I’d never have figured it when I was holding the inch long wound shut with one hand and applying super-glue with the other, all the while trying not to drip it in Rich’s eye. It would have been easier if he would have quit drinking for the duration of the procedure, but that would have been an affront to his very being. Such is the man of which I speak.

So I raise my glass to you Rich, the most entertaining, thought-provoking, and just damn interesting roommate a masochist like myself could ask for. Rich, you’re like a brother to me (and given that you know my real brother please don't take that as an insult).

I'm Ford W. Maverick, and I'll see you in hell.

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