Some evenings call for acting like five-year-olds,
and if it's an evening with Mark,
Philip,
Thomas, and Abby, it's probably
an evening of immaturity. We do things like wrestle people in prolonged
fights over a chair, lock people out when they leave the room (Philip),
and then
poke
them from under the door with a wooden sword. We play video games (namely,
Smash Brothers), eat cold Chick-fil-a, and argue about who's closest to
the TV when the volume is too low. Philip does things like use his cell
to call his brother downstairs, asking if he would please get his dinner
out
of
the
bathroom a
few rooms away and bring it to him.
And people, the "your mom" jokes are so abundant that you can swim through
them. (I swam through your mom last night.)
We jump at the oppurtunity to use phrases like "the bonus room." There
are golden moments like: "My hair is greasy, and there's sugar in my pocket"
and (in
reference
to
armpit-farting)
"I
used
to be
able to
play
'Silent Night' but I lost my tone when I got pit hair." They don't make
any more sense in context, believe me.
At least once every time all of us get together, Thomas and Philip won't
put down their guitars. They play the same five songs every time: "Undone:
the Sweater Song," "Karma Police," "Paranoid Android," "Cherub Rock," "Here
In My Room," and tonight -- the Power Rangers themesong. Abby and I sat
in the corner and played rock, paper, scissors, and poked around Philip's
basement and popped bubble wrap. Tonight Mark accompanied them on drums
as the three of them sang their best mockery of Kurt Cobain's scratchy
"Smells
Like Teen Spirit" voice.
Being "one of the guys" is probably the most amusing thing
I can do with my time. Teenage guys have this logic that, to an outsider,
seems silly. Mark told me once about a friend who, when told that the
bed on which he was to sleep would have to be made in the morning,
slept on top of all the bed clothes, even though it was cold. They
make me laugh so hard that my stomach hurts afterward. So hard that I
don't even get hiccups.