The Deflate of the Great Debate [9.10.08]

For the past week, I have been observing others' reactions in numerous settings: from angst-filled picnics to germy dorm rooms, from germy dorm rooms to provolone-packed fridge doors. I have witnessed someone in mid-sneeze, mid-chomp, and mid-curse, but I had yet to witness someone in mid-debate. It has perpetually been a phantasm of mine - sitting back as one's emotions curdle over the rim of self-control. The oppressor would ask for the truth, the oppressed would fire back that they could not handle the truth, and my vision would conclude in genuine Tom Cruise-esque style. Before today, it was unthinkable for me to depict a dispute ceasing any more comically than that. Thankfully, for the sake of this journal, today's occurrence proved that I could not have been more wrong. Sitting in the package room, I soon realized its stereotypical quality: monotony. Given that one should not expect a large deviation from the system, I was surprised to see my friend enter with a rather peculiar request. He asked for a package that was NOT confirmed to be sent to him. When asked how he knew of its arrival, he said that his significant other sent it to him weeks ago, and that the only option at this point in time was for it to be sitting on the shelf. After triple-checking, the student worker interjected his own thoughts: "Nope, it's not here...hey, maybe she lied about sending you a package." I waited ardently for my friend's Shakespearian response: certainly he would not allow someone to trespass and stomp over his heart's love-plot! He would gallop in on his white steed of verbiage and preserve her honor in rightful twenty-first-century chivalry. As I sat, maintaining my monumental expectations, he murmured back: "Maybe you're right...maybe she lied...danget." The conversation that followed was everything but chick flick-worthy. Minutes later, I approached my friend and asked if he was mad, with which he replied in Napolean Dynamite tones: "Mad? Of course I'm mad - I want my frickin' package." He was clearly perturbed, and I was astonished at what sparked his anguish. With that, he departed mumbling to the student worker "Thanks man...and you're probably right, she probably just forgot or something." As far as I was concerned, the great debate just deflated, leaving a floppy half-filled pigskin on the fifty yard line post-Superbowl. Where was the love? Where was the passion? And where on God's green earth was that package?