Did you trudge slowly to Aggieville, reluctantly preparing a face to meet the faces that you meet? Did you run into a pack of grad students, one of whom owed you a drink? How did that conversation go?

"Am I getting you that drink?" "Why, indeed you are."

It was a screwdriver, because they’re only two bucks at Mae’s.

Grad Student paid the waitress. "Tomorrow morning I’ll be drinking a citrusey cocktail as well!"

"While grading portfolios? Let me guess: mimosas."

The two other Graddies discussed who was bringing all the orange juice tomorrow morning. I checked my phone — no new messages since the ones I’d been reading an hour prior (of the soul-destroying "you-hould-stay-away-from-me-or-we’ll-both-get-hurt" variety)  — and finished my drink. And another. They decided to go dancing, as if this fucking day couldn’t get any worse.

We ended up at Tubby’s. The grad students weren’t kidding about wanting to dance. I joined in for a minute and sort of swayed back and forth, lazily bending my knees when appropriate, until I got tired (me = olde). The other guys in the bar all looked like date rapists. I went outside for some fresh air.

It was cool outside, and the music was better, more conducive to moping. And then suddenly it wasn’t; a redheaded Irishman started badgering me about oatmeal cookies. "They taste so good. Have one. Have one. Have one."

"But I need something stronger."

"Have one."

His friend — who also looked like a date rapist — bought a round of viking warhammers, whatever the fuck that is. I downed one and checked my phone again (masochism!) and went back to the dance floor. I tried to start again with the knee-bendey thing, but my heart just wasn’t in it.