Reflections on Dunkaroos, Star Trek and Hannah Montana

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My parents just called. Shit. They’re coming already.
Last night we had friends over and what was originally going to be three friends turned into probably 15. Now all that remain are empty bottles of Stella, four or five bottles of two-buck Chuck and I. Four years ago, I packed all of my belongings into my mom’s old ’96 Volvo, a boxcar encapsulating 18 years of crap, and moved into Mesa Court without mom and dad. Four years of college, and this has to be only the second time they’ve visited.
‘I thought we raised you to be clean,’ they say after walking through my Park West apartment. They don’t stay longer than five minutes. My dad is having an allergic reaction.
Four years of college, and now it’s time to graduate. It’s time for the future. It’s time for me to finish up that down-syndromed child of humanities requirements

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