Yesterday was my college’s end-of-term festival. As such, we did the usual things college kids do: commune with lesbians, dress up in all white, drink
al juice, sing the songs of our foremothers bashing the patriarchy, bounce around in giant bouncey things, and just generally conduct ourselves like the cult members we are and will forever be.
It was a hot day and the festivities attracted members of the surrounding community and even – dare I say it – boys. It was quite a scene. There was a circus performer (whom I was very weary of) who entertained the crowd during the day. He juggled flaming torches and made funny faces but mostly, he scared the living daylights out of drunk college students. Nobody was sure whether he was just some crazy old man who stumbled onto the festival or if he had been legitimately hired by the college (and, if that was the case, two words: BUDGET CUTS).
At one point, he was juggling his flaming batons and dropped one of them ONTO THE GROUND WHERE THERE IS FLAMMABLE, DRY GRASS. Luckily, this didn’t end in our entire college being burned to the ground as he swiftly picked up the baton and continued on his merry way like the consummate professional my college obviously thought he was.
There was also a lot of drinking games but they mostly made me feel bad about myself. Beer pong reminds me that I will never be an NBA star. (I’m sorry I’ve failed you, Dad.)
At the end a long day of running around and being an extremely mature young woman, I settled down at my apartment and wished upon a star that tomorrow would bring more members into the cult, so that it will forever brainwash the young. Carry the tradition, ladies! And may the flaming batons be with you always!