I remember my first joke in college. We were paired up, two by two, to help us find a friends among our fellow freshmen and to complete a scavenger hunt. I looked at my partner, some 25-year-old guido named Tony. “Oh man, I feel all nervous, like I’m on a blind date. Like gays must feel when they meet their new roommates.” I’m pretty sure crickets had invaded that hallway and chose exactly that moment to chirp. Tony coughed and looked out the window. I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants. “Well, uh, shall we start?” I stuttered, looking at the list of shit we were looking for. Friendship wasn’t explicitly on the list, but I knew I’d failed to find that.
I remember my second joke in college. Navigating my tray down the cafeteria hallway, I reached the soft drink station. I overflowed the short cup with Sierra Mist bubbles and foam, the excess spilling down my wrist. Then, because half had poured out, I overflowed it again. I glanced over at the security guard watching me. “I got a scholarship for spilling Sierra Mist,” I deadpanned. He chuckled.
Beaming, I strolled into the dining hall. Looking over the full tables, I recognized no one. I sat down next to strangers who gave me a disgusted look and ignored me. My beef quesadilla tasted burnt and my drink flat.