The call of the weekend
The winter night's breeze carried the beef and beans smell of a late-night taco bar through the Sample Gates. I was taking a study break, on a walk from the Indiana Memorial Union to Jimmy John's for a late-night sub. A section of sidewalk by Kilroy's on Kirkwood had disappeared under a mass of people standing outside the entrance. I crossed the street to get around. The people were jovial, happily blinded by beer goggles and gushing punch-drunk promiscuity, while I was a pissed-off kind of sober.

