"}Just thought of a great backstory to a fanfic I\u2019m writing
more
Remember the late, great Dave Strider? \u00a0He was a basketball star in college. \u00a0He went to Kansas, the home of my alma mater, where his beloved colleges in the Midwest were a major theme of the popular TV shows. \u00a0He spent his sophomore year partying on campus, and then his senior year partying more, even though he had a really heavy scholarship and was a future college drop-out. \u00a0Oh, and at the end of that freshman year he led a charmed sexual and post-coital life which seemed somehow not entirely appropriate for the world of scholarship which he was about to inherit. \u00a0The freshman year was rambunctious and free-spirited, but he was a sophomore all right. \u00a0Still, the senior year passed, and no change. \u00a0The country had fallen to the communists and and the National Student Organization. \u00a0There were angry popes and sad political leaders and two great forces in the world conspired to keep his freshman year free and flamboyant with a free-spirited attitude.
But, I now remember, Dave was a sophomore, and he was a strange and mischievous sophomore, and he was a very\u00a0likable\u00a0and appealing sophomore.
And I remembered all these memories of him: how he was a keen student of the Spanish language and a master of dead-on imitations of Shakespeare; how he met his wife, who was in the shades of Spanish roses but, who to me, looked like a Mexican metal singer with pigtails; how he worked his way through English classes; how he received \u2013\u00a0
bless the \u2018the fuck\u2019!\u2019
\u2013 the way he seduced the Spanish student body with his phony imprimaturs of vices and femininities; how he had his meet-cutes with the sophomores in the corridors and beaches and fountains, the way he knew the names of every singer in the school; and how he took the sophomore who couldn\u2019t use the library in the library and gave him free books; and how he would go looking for loopholes in the Spanish texts; how he would have a hair-raising return on his investment in late evenings out in the park.
And I remembered all these memories of him, with the tinge of gay-sense of an excited boy and I was doing all I could to\u00a0get him into a Mexican call-out room,\u00a0so he could be literally kidnapped by the vice-chair-level vice presidents of the collage of hottybosom in the spooly ish.
But I forgot to mention something. \u00a0I forgot to mention that there was an element of constraint to the six-foot-six sophomore. \u00a0A minus-seven of the supreme hundred-and-fifty-year-old Oxonian equilibrium.
The younger you are, the more tender you have to be, the more you have to appear open, the more open you have to be, to someone. \u00a0You can\u2019t cry or you\u2019ll seem a little silly. \u00a0You can\u2019t play the ghost in society\ufffd