Scott Muska

I woke up the next morning on a couch in the laundry room, three floors down from where I lived. I was wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs.

Listen to the Bright Eyes’ or Elvis version of “Blue Christmas” one time and one time only. Realize you do not need to listen to depressing holiday music this year. Freak out in a good way.

I hope people understand that most Penn Staters contradict the actions of the few who have tarnished the university’s reputation. Most of “us” realize there are more important things than the success of a football team, and that celebrity does not always trump accountability. We’re just as upset as you are, and most of us strive to do more good than bad.

Every year, I seem to find myself a few days before Halloween in a similar situation as I am in nearly every time I go to a video store. In the time leading up to either, I have so many ideas of what I’d like to dress up as, and what movie I’d like to watch, but when I get to crunch time I fail to capitalize. I crack under the pressure. My mind blanks, and I end up settling.

I chose the word “Invictus” for my first tattoo because I genuinely like the poem and thought it’d be super edgy to have something literary embossed on my body. Turns out I’d unknowingly been introduced to my favorite poem by the television series One Tree Hill.

A few weeks ago, my younger sister’s educational pursuits caused her to move from our parents’ house in our hometown to live alone in a new one. She asked me how I initially dealt and still deal with this dynamic, so I wrote her this letter.

“Scott,” he says. “I know Bill has been playing every single minute for us for the past year-and-a-half, since right after that fall formal, you know, when he came up to me at the punch bowl and started rubbing my back and said, ‘Why don’t you give me a shot at the title, coach?’ But you know what? You’re going in there the second half. Thing is, though, you can’t tell Bill.”

We stood there, this stranger and I, while I held a spatula in my hand and Explosions in the Sky played in the background. It was like Friday Night Lights had transitioned into soft porn. “Oh-my-God-I’m-so-sorry,” the man said, slamming the door before I even had a chance to cover my groin with the spatula.

I won’t send you pictures of my dick while in the restroom or otherwise, even if a photograph supposedly adds 10 pounds. Unless you ask for them, then I may acquiesce, but only after we work past my trust issues.