Today felt like a good day to go to the pool.

My non-existent tan begged for some vitamin D and my feet hadn’t burned themselves on the hot cement since mid-May. So, yes, today was a perfect day to go to the pool.

I walked up there armed with a book to read, a disappearing hangover and the excitement of not having anything to do. From afar, I could tell the pool was crowded, but it’s Saturday, it’s to be expected. As I got closer, I realized it was really crowded. Whatever, I don’t need a pool chair, cement it is. As I pushed through the gate, I found myself standing in the middle of an orgy of frat boys, random old people cooking a pig in the shade and three dozen drunk blond girls. It was 2 in the afternoon.

I wasn’t going to let this ruin my Saturday afternoon, so I found the only open space on the cement and laid down, opened my book and anxiously awaited the overbearing sweaty feeling. Before that could happen, more frat boys came barreling through the gate, keg in hand and a cooler of jell-o shots.

Half-way through an annoying Fergie song, a frat boy asked “What the hell are we listening to?” –my thoughts exactly. He walked over to giant speaker and began scrolling through the ipod. Fitter Happier came on. Nope, he went to the next. The Cranberries’ Linger started playing. Nope. Incubus’ Pistola. Nope. Smashing Pumpkins’ Disarm. Nope. I was starting to think whoever owned this Ipod had good taste, but this frat boy was ruining it. What did he choose? Give you one guess.

O.A.R.

Of course. Another fratty shouted, “Shit yeah!” Frat boys high-five’d and my arms burned while I rolled my eyes. What followed couldn’t have been more stereotypical frat boy music: Dave Matthews and Bob Marley.

I gave up on reading my book, turned over and proceeded to cook my organs a little longer. The frat boys had circled around the table right behind my head.

“Phat tattoo, man. When are you gettin’ it touched up?”

They stood around comparing equally sweet armband tattoos and revealed in each other’s awesomeness. Several girls had run by giggling and downed jell-o shots that came from a trash bag inside of a cooler. The boys discussed the bars downtown and how much money they had dropped the night before. “My tabs are always big.” Thank you Daddy Warbucks. I had only been there 40 minutes, but I had to go. Not only had my liver been cooked very well-done, my brain seared by the overly predictable frat talk and music. I needed to go.

Frat boys everywhere–I hate you. I know daddy is paying for your alcoholism and friends. That’s cute. I know that sweet tattoo totally meant something to you as you convinced your brahs late one night that getting Cindy inscribed on your arm after your one month anniversary. I know those beer bellies forming are sure to attract some hotties. I know those tight khakis are worn just so they can cause your tiny bulge to be seen. And sadly I know, one day you will inherit daddy’s fortune, you’ll marry Cindy (whose hair is falling out from dying it blond too much), live in the suburbs, act like a douchebag and drink to try to forget how sad your life is. It’s sad really. I wish it could be different, but you made your decision. <3