ALL THAT JAZZ

Every open door is a mess of guitar hero, Nintendo 64, and a mess of rejected clothes. Coming home initially isn't an open demonstration of living the high life on a college campus. Its more like an open statement, "We are men, we are popular, get used to it."
       Just thank god, that them being underage (mostly) means the hallway doesn't smell like the floor of TKE, and that the somewhat snotty attitude of Long Island hasn't corrupted them. They are willing to joke about a deceased Alfred, have wall drumming wars, and find my cooking agreeable. It all really amazes me. And while the train their fingers on Smash Mario Brothers, shout over the Superbowl, and keep me an insomniac at 4 am cause I unnaturally worry they are honestly good.
      I was told to worry, and to save write ups in my room cause I would need them. In reality its just like a class of crazy kids that need an equal amount genuine understanding, and discipline with some honest respect.
     And to be honest I would rather walk around the hallway in the evenings and hear their rantings in the lounge, and the girls off pitch singing to hear the sound of death. Disney and Mario are better than death.
         So I shall throw away my extra reports, except on rare occasions, and continuously hope they don't bring the booze home. If not, then we will cross that bridge when we get to it.