I would like to submit an official request for the shitty version of New Haven to come back. The gray skies heavy with depression, the iced sidewalks claiming victims right and left, the wind that makes me bitch. I would even settle for the urain. I call it urain because isn’t dry but it isn’t cathartic thunderstorm rain either; it just goes on and on, peeing on us from October to December. Please, Boo Haven, come back and pee on me!
Now you ask, why would I want such a thing? Is this not the Steven who struggles along the street, all zipped up in his North Face with his fleeces and his whines? What happened to Mr. Grumblecakes, ever eager to bemoan his poor circulation and curse the New England weather?
Well, Mr. Grumblecakes is going to fail out of school if this spring shit does not stop. I get to classes hours late because it’s so nice to just walk around and look at everything blossoming and turning pastel — including me: I have gotten like five times gayer since April started. I skip; people stare.
The worst part is that whenever I try to do work, all I can think about is how much I want to have a baby. I don’t mean I want to have a baby like I want to pull an Ahnold and stitch a placenta to my liver (I hear it is sufficiently vascularized to make such an endeavor tricky, but promising). I mean I want to own a baby. Lots of ’em. A truckload. I look outside, and there are flowers and trees turning green and all kinds of beautiful things, and I think, “Let’s get some kids. Hell yeah.”
I’ll take good care of ’em. I’ll dress ’em all up in light blues and yellows in fabrics that breathe easily so they won’t get too hot when we go on outings. I will get them little hats with big brims so they won’t burn in the sun. I will name them Armand and Brianna and Alice and Cesario and Blanche and Daphne. I will get a baby wagon, one of those big plastic things with a bunch of little seats and a rope for the owner of the babies to pull on. And I will wagon my babies around all day. We will go to my professors, and I will say, “Look this is why I did not turn in my problem set; I’ve got all these babies to take care of.”
“But Steven, harrumph harrumph, this is a class on Probabilistic Data Analytical Combinatorics, harrumph harrumph. What do babies have to do with anything?”
And then one of them will clap or gurgle or something, and I will be like, “Ha! Babies have to do with everything!”
And they will give me an A+ because they know I’ll need a good job to take care of my brood. And we will go on our merry way.
The difficulty right now is that I do not have any babies. All I have is my vernal desire for them, and my inability to complete assignments because of my thoughts of them, along with my thoughts of activities that are sometimes, but thankfully not always, associated with the manufacture of babies.
So what I do is frolic. I’d always thought I had a dour, my-tail-fell-off sort of streak and was no good at frolicking. But now I see it’s easy: you drink just a little bit, not enough to even feel it, a sip really, around 2:30 p.m., then maybe you have some more, because it’s too late now, you know, and then you just lie back and leer quietly, shamelessly at the half-naked people playing Frisbee from the bed of tulips over to one side of the courtyard. Tulips! You didn’t even know New Haven had tulips. Aren’t they Dutch? No, that one is definitely some kind of Italian-American; I’d like to take a stick of butter and …
The other plan I have to avoid failing out of Yale is to get everyone to frolic with me. If no one does any work, then we all win. They have us in a kind of prisoner’s dilemma, you see. But if we all work together by not working, we can break through their bars into an Edenic season of love, personal fulfillment and debauch. Come outside! Diplomas are worth nothing! You’re only going to waste your time looking at Facebook anyway! Let youth not be wasted on the young. What I’m trying to say is this: You wanna go make some babies?
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