A Budding Existentialist

There’s a certain point at which you just can’t ignore the evidence: the moon is the wrong shape and the world is spinning counterclockwise and you’ve picked the wrong major, the wrong future, the wrong boyfriend.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when nothing makes sense and the only reasonable question to ask is “what am I doing at this party?”

And that’s a valid question.
After all, it’s all allegory,
and what’s the difference between baskets of bread and fish,
and red Solo cups brimming with domestic?
The coat of many colors can just as easily be Bradford’s signed jersey;
that epic flood could have been the ice storm that ravaged campus, canceling finals and taking the trees with it when it receded.

“What am I doing at this party?” you’re thinking,
but there’s still that ping-pong ball in your solo cup,
and its contents need to be drunk.

All of this is wrong, though.
The shape of the moon.
Your major, your boyfriend,
and that new pair of shoes you bought last week.

What are you doing at this party?
What is this party doing to you?