Nathan Savin Scott

Little presumptuous to call it the “World” Series, don’t you think?

It’s part of this world we grew up in, dominated by advertisers, where we are shown (repeatedly, constantly, to the point of near perpetuity) the same jingoistic songs, the “He likes it! Hey Mikey!” repetitions that come part and parcel with being (growing up, living) as an American.

She doesn’t much care what the President’s fiscal policy for the next four years is, but she is prepared to put a generous glass of Pinot Grigio straight to her dome if he says “47%.”

Contractually / have to drink all this freaking / Red Bull. Jittery.

One of the biggest disappointments in my life thus far has been finding out how little this is true. In the grand scheme of things, no one really cares what I listen to.

The guy who makes fun of everything. Everything is lame. Everything sucks. This can be employed either to show that he has a tough external guard up against the world that needs to be broken down, or that he’s just so cool this world is not for him.

Girls who can put down a whiskey are sexy. I like that. But a girl who rips off nine scotches in a row at the bar? That’s just alcoholism.

Being that I was one of two people in the dorm who knew how to tie a tie, I was called into service for the better part of two hours helping the boys get ready. Too much cologne was sprayed. I took about 2300 photos.

I’m “the problem kid” and I “need to get a job” and I “need to stop living in the basement” and I “shouldn’t look at my cousin like that.”

Biking past them, I got the sudden instinct to call one Madison. Don’t ask me how I knew it, but I knew for a fact that at least one girl in every group was named Madison. I also decided they were all dating kids who played lacrosse at Johns Hopkins.

My favorite saying of my dad’s, however, was “Don’t force it if it’s not on.” He used this when a player would try something outrageous on the soccer field when there was a simpler option.

I know we don’t cover sports all that often here at Thought Catalog. (The last time I watched a football game with our editors, one of them clapped loudly and exclaimed “Touch of downs! Touch of downs!” after a missed field goal.)