To the Scripps Women’s Studies senior seminar who recently discussed this column: Thank You. In arguing the merits of gay-game, you have unwittingly thrust Come to Papa!! into the world of academe. It warms my cold and empty heart to know that something I produce is being discussed in the intellectual sphere, if only to serve as an example of the negative effect of alcohol, poorly conceived prose and latent and repressed homosexual tendencies working in concert. A tear of pride slips slowly down off my cheek.

I begin this week’s column with the solemn realization that I am going to kill myself. Mind you, this is not out of despair or hitting "rock bottom" (as my NA sponsor is so quick to assert), for I am an eternal optimist: when others say that life can’t get any worse, I have the confidence and faith to say, "no, no, it can." Nor is this a cry for help, regardless of whatever I have been told during my past interventions. My escape from the pathetic and dreary existence that is my life won’t even be intentional, for as my father and thesis advisor both remind me; I never follow through with any of my goals. My imminent and brutal death is simply the sad fact written in the stars above.

Allow me to paint a picture. After a fifth of vodka and a pitcher or two of margaritas, my two remaining brain cells ca not even focus my eyes. This past Monday, in a stroke of genius rivaled only by George W. himself, I stacked two of the wooden school-issue chairs out on our porch and played with the electrical wiring of the light socket ten feet off the floor. And yes, it had been raining. Luckily the anesthetic affectations of the vodka-tequila mixture were in full force as I fell backwards in what anyone halfway sober would have seen as the completion of a foregone conclusion. Off-campus senior Jon Korn was kind enough to assist in removing the shards from the margarita glasses that softened the impact, from my bleeding back.

I would like, if I may, to return to the aforementioned point of not-locking the door. This is not entirely accurate. Several weeks ago I had the pleasure to witness the end of my cousin Tommy’s life. The evening before the actual wedding, we all attended the rehearsal dinner where I had to "play nice" with relatives, father and stepmother included. Luckily, the look of terror emanating from my petrified and pale face must have caught the eye of one of the servers as she informed me, "You know, you can charge drinks from the bar to your father’s room." She actually did not say "father’s room," but I knew what she meant.

Six Long Islands, three tequila shots and a Vodka-Bailey’s later, I found myself staring at my hotel room door. Yes, the world was spinning. This was the first time in my life, however, when I personally understood the alcoholic’s term a "moment of clarity." You see, sobriety unexpectedly thrust its dirty claws into my cerebral tissue. I believe this occurred the moment I realized that I couldn’t possibly have the key-card to my hotel room if it wasn’t in my hand, and it couldn’t be in my pockets since I was naked. Yes, there I stood, staring at my naked, frightened and (sadly) obviously Jewish "body" in the mirror at the end of the hallway. And then I turned around and then there was the maid…yadda,yadda,yadda…and I have to pay $350/month for child support. But not really. I just went down in a towel I stole from the maid’s closet and got a new card out of pity for my lack of clothes and out of pity for my genetic disposition. Regardless, my days are numbered.

The point is, alumnus Drew S. Eastman is writing this now. FREE BENNY KRAINES! That amp is not Aaron "Hangin’ on Drew P. Nutsack’s nut" Sachs bane of existence, but rather his liberation.