let me not to the meeting of true minds

admit flatulence.

We met on the first day of frosh week at Kings. Boris was a fart of a seventeen year old boy. I was a measly little mop topped Muppet. He and I were awkward together, a pair of playful platypodes surrounded by our Upper Canadian overlords.

His brown bob cut matched my blond locked Bono imitation. We liked the same music and found the world within the quad at Kings College to be alienating at best. I lived at home, excluded from the kinds of campus antics that make university a transformative experience.

The floor of his dorm room was my connection to campus life. I hadn’t seen Boris since he took off to work on organic farms one moment then work in ecological logging using draft horses the next. I thought he as nuts.

Randy called. I had been avoiding him. I was avoiding everyone and everything. The walls of life were closing in. My heart was feeling small.

The pills though? I’m not certain whether I wanted to brag about my new drugs or was merely feeling better about myself. I’m going …