Scott Johnson, Intranational Man of Mystery

I have been in five different states in the last five days. (I neglect to mention that one was merely for five minutes passing through on a bus and the other was on an airport layover). The point is, I have been traveling a lot. I am writing from Hershey, Pennsylvania right now, anxiously awaiting tomorrow's medical school interview at the Penn State College of Medicine. I am excited and nervous all at the same time. I have no idea what they will ask me, and therefore no idea what I will answer. I hope its good enough.
So let's rewind and recap the last week: I went to Vegas for the Utah/UNLV game with Ashley. The game was a bust, but I did get to meet up with Pat and Kristie and I ate well there. And I came away with a nasty illness to boot. I had three tests in school this week, and today I flew out to PA.

Now for a mini rant. I normally don't pay much attention to other people on campus, but I saw something the other day that stopped me dead in my tracks. So there's this guy on campus that I see walking towards me and initially I just thought "Oh hey, if Val Kilmer had a flabby, retarded brother he'd probably look like that." I am a bad person and think things like that all the time. But then I looked closer and noticed the way the wind pressed his faded black tank top with the pit stains against his ample chest rolls and played through his fluffy flat-top hair cut. The tassles on his cut-off denim shorts danced in harmony with his vibrating leg fat. His old-school tevas tapped a heavy rhythm on the pavement as he lumbered toward the library, mouth open, noisily gulping in large quantities of air. Maybe I wouldn't have noticed if it was a balmy summer day, but it is the end of September in Logan. And no, it doesn't make a difference if its a heavy-knit ribbed Thinsulate tanktop or if its the slinky little wifebeater you wore to the state fair in July. The tanktop should be verboten on 99% of the population ANYWAY. One reason I look forward to fall is the fact that much of that stuff goes away. I don't have to see rolls pouring out of both ends of shorts, I don't have to see pasty, sickly cleavage hanging from protuding collarbones as I pass the emaciated "artists" at the Fine Arts building. I don't have to see pit stains, and I don't typically smell it much either. I served in Europe for two years, so I saw enough zit-filled backs and peeking cracks to last a lifetime. I am through with it for the year! I am going to start bringing spare sweaters to school so that Val Kilmer's flabby, retarded younger brother and anyone else I encounter can dress season-appropriate, dammit!