queenofbloodanddust:

acoaas:

nonasuch:

Yesterday I overheard someone talking about how he was taking classes at the University of Maryland because they offer free tuition if you’re over 60. 

My brain IMMEDIATELY began scripting a screwball comedy in which a broke millennial who desperately want to finish his long-abandoned degree but is drowning in student debt pretends to be a senior citizen in order to attend college for free.

I’m picturing someone Channing Tatumesque, applying age makeup every morning before he heads off to class. It’s sort of a cross between 21 Jump Street and Mrs. Doubtfire. He keeps forgetting which hip is supposed to be his bad one. His classmates laugh every time he uses slang. There’s definitely a scene where he attends a college party and busts it up on the dance floor.

He catches the eye of a fellow returning student, a woman in her 50s, but she thinks he’s like 70 and she’s already buried one husband, you know? She’s not interested in doing that again. When his charade unravels (hilariously) at the end of the movie, though, she finds out he’s actually like 30 and has abs you could bounce a quarter off. And he’s still super into her. And really, maybe it’s time she gave May-December romance a chance.

I need this like I need air.

I am in serious need of this book

“Fishing lures?” said Brock.  “Dude, what?”  

“Shut up, man,” said Matt, checking his reflection.  He stared at the lures kind of dubiously, then removed them from his shirt pocket.  Yeah, maybe they were a little too much.  

“And where’d you even get that outfit?!”  his roommate of five years demanded, not letting up.  “Did you crack open a coffin and rip it off an old dude’s corpse?”  

“That’s weirdly specific,” said Matt, frowning as he uncapped a brown eyeliner.  This part was tricky.  

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Brock said, leaning against the door of the bathroom not-quite casually, to block out anyone who might walk in on the millenial aging forty years in ten minutes.  Matt snorted.  It would have been convincing if it hadn’t been about the fiftieth time Brock had said it.  

“You’d think you’d have gotten past the surprise stage by now,” he said.  “Like, maybe four months ago, when I got my acceptance letter.  Or a month before that, when I sent out like a million apps.  Or two weeks before that, when I got the fake.”  

The fake ID hadn’t actually been done with old age makeup.  He’d just done his best to look middle-aged, and they’d dated it about twenty years ago with some paperwork for renewing it by mail.  

“I know, but…” Brock hesitated.  “It’s different, you know?”  

“What, cuz it’s the first day of school?”  

He couldn’t remember if he’d done the scar on his left or right fake-jowl during Orientation.  He picked left.  Hopefully no one would notice.  

“People are actually going to see you,” Brock said.  He sighed, and ran a hand over his face.  “Be careful, alright?  Look, I’m gonna go pick up Karen…”

“Is this the teacher?”  

“Huh?  No, that was Lisa.  We broke up.  Karen does retail.  It’ll be the first time she’s coming over to our place, so do you mind if I move your stuff…?”  

“Sure,” said Matt, picking up the brown eyeliner again.  Liver spots were good.  He hadn’t done them last time, but they were convincing as hell, and he intended to remedy that.  “Just stuff it in my room; I’ll take care of it when I get back.”  

They always did this when they had dates over – they’d clean up the place and dump the other person’s stuff into their room so their date wasn’t surrounded by reminders of a third party’s existence, like some random other dude might barge in on them while they were necking.  

Plus, they were kind of embarrassed.  Sure, times were tough, and rent was $2000 a month in the cheapest livable flats – three times the monthly income of a minimum wage worker, and only a little under twice of Brock’s – but it still felt kind of weird to be living with a roommate when they were almost thirty.  

Matt finished dusting his face with translucent powder and started capping all of his equipment, placing each thing by category into ziplock bags.  

“Want me to come with you?”  Brock asked.  “I can spare an hour.”  

“Nah,” said Matt.  “I can take care of-”  He coughed, then shrugged his shoulders and shook out his arms, loosening himself up.  He hunched over, curving his shoulders in and sticking his head forward like he was peering intently at something.  

“Thank you, young man,” he said, in a wheezy, dry tone.  He coughed.  Doing the voice was hurting his throat a little.  “You’re a well-mannered young’un.”  He tried his best to sound like he was choking on chalk dust.  

Brock snickered.  “Alright,” he said.  “I’ll leave you to it.  Let me know if you meet any lovely seventy-year-old grandmothers.  I can always clear up my stuff for tomorrow.”  

Matt flipped him the bird as he walked away.