I’m not usually the nostalgic type, but recent events have forced me to look inward and remember the good ole days.

You know the days when gas was just $1.29, the Backstreet Boys were still together and freshmen could still get plastered at Campus Pub. It’s a parking lot now, so a little piece of me dies every time I walk by.

Where did the good times go? Was it terrorists? Was it Saddam Hussein? Was it David Keith?

No, the true thieves are Father Time and Uncle Progression. And at this week’s family reunion, they took away my friend Marion.

Oh I’ve been losing friends for weeks to graduation, marriage and West Nile (just kidding), but as Marion’s domino fell, I felt my own sad fate creeping in.

She’s from Memphis, so watching her travel back to Arkansas (Beale Street, Graceland and those retarded Ducks are not part of this state so get over it) where she was once a proud Hutchison Honey Bee is depressing.

It’s so depressing that it stings. (Get it. I was playing off the whole bee thing. Damn I’m good.)

I’m officially a loser. You know the feeling. It’s like watching graduated seniors stick around your high school because they have nothing else in life to hold onto except their memories and a weekly column at … um … I’m on a tangent.

I don’t like this feeling of being the only one left. Sure it’s my fault for never getting through my Spanish requirement. I’ve had it 1.5 times and still no credit.

As a result, I have to suffer through December watching friend after friend move on to the real world. I’ll really miss my friends.

Marion has this kickin’ fog machine and two turtles, Thaddeus and Bone (which I named), which will be sorely missed, but the true pain comes from the little things.

Like every time I see her at Cool Beans and I tell her to find a new bar and she tells me to stop hitting on her friends and violating her fog machine or she’ll go to the cops. Don’t you love friendship. It’s a special thing.

But now Marion actually is finding a new bar, and I’m left to find new girls and new restraining orders. The truth is I would like to move on, but in reality my time has passed.

I’m old, finished, washed up, worthless to society. Just call me Jennifer Lopez and don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got. (Seriously, what happened to her? From Bennifer to dead.)

I’m not churning out crappy singles with voice synthesizers, but I definitely have the backside. In teeball they used to call me “Dumps-lika-Truck.”

In my fragile state I have found ways to entertain myself. I play cards, crochet, catch some soaps. None of that is really good enough, though.

So I’ve turned to crime. Just the other day I dressed up as a gorilla and tackled my friend Johnathan on crutches as orientation groups walked by the Music Building’s courtyard. Oh yeah … we filmed it. (Shameless Plug: http://web.utk.edu/~glafolle/greaseistheword.html)

But when I’m not running around embarrassing my family name, I also like to develop deep-rooted theories that shatter the foundation of world thought.

My latest is called “Batting the Cycle.” It’s a system that gives men “slugging percentages” for meeting girls. It’s not that complicated.

You make out on a date … it’s a single. You take her home … you’re batting 1.000.

My batting average has been down this week, but I’ve gotten a few RBIs playing wingman for my friend Bailey. I thought about developing this into like a fantasy league where men or women can buy or sell their players.

My friend Chris is already leading the league after his trip to Cancun, but we had to put my friend Andrew on the DL because his old lady is studying abroad in Australia.

So this is what I do with my time. Nothing.

This of course allows me to further think about my loneliness. But one can only swim in apathy so long.

I’ve decided not to let the changes get me down. I have plenty of new, fun things to look forward to in the fall – graduation, football season, new freshmen girls, etc.

It’s time to stop looking at the past because it will always be there. The here and now is what matters in this world (I’ve been watching a lot of Dr. Phil. Can you tell?).

Bye, Marion. Tell Bone I have his Enrique Iglesias CD.

He’s not getting it back.

– Glenn LaFollette is a super-senior in journalism and electronic media. He can be reached at [email protected].