It’s the back end of my junior year, my sister is a freshman in college and time feels like it is sprinting at Usain Bolt-like speed. Time is a Ritz cracker, a delicious flat circle that tastes good with almost anything, but there are never enough sleeves in the box. Excuse me while I lock myself in my room and play Gary Jules’ “Mad World” on repeat.

I have always struggled with the concept of getting older, even from a young age. Like most kids my age, I was petrified of death. I didn’t fully understand the concept of not existing, and the Bible’s stories of man-eating lions and building giant boats due to monsoons were not alleviating any of my fears.

Not knowing things gives me anxiety, so you can guess how I feel about the future. What I’ve learned is it’s never as scary as you think, but it doesn’t stop you from wanting to pause things from time to time. But we move forward, since I don’t have the smarts to build a time machine, and “Click” really turned me off from the idea of stopping time anyway.

Rather than approach it with reason, I prolonged thinking about it until I had to. It’s why I didn’t take applying to college so seriously. When the guidance counselor called me into the office and asked what schools I was interested in, I didn’t have a clue. It was high school, so the only colleges I knew were Greendale Community College and whoever played in the NCAA tournament. But I couldn’t go to school with Juan Dixon, so what was the point? So when the college process came around, I did what any frightened high school student would do: applied early decision to Syracuse (because Newhouse) so I wouldn’t have to worry about it. Who cared about college, you’re telling me my mom isn’t going to cook for me anymore?

Which is why I think everyone should listen to postmodern philosopher Ferris Bueller, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.”

Early last year I was walking home alone from a fraternity party. Jealous? While I don’t remember the house, based on its condition, I think the theme of the party was “recently looted.” The party was sweaty and terrible, and I walked home with a bit of a bad taste in my mouth, probably from all the raw eggs I drank.

But on my way home, I was called over by a group of seniors to come hang out. I was across the street, and I did what any sensible person would do at around 1 a.m. when called by a group of strangers: I went over immediately.

It turns out they had invited me to the Funk Porch. While they did not sell waffles, this group of students designed this porch for the sole purpose of dancing to funk all night long. So that’s exactly what we did. Like the deleted scenes of “Step Up 2: The Streets,” we danced until we couldn’t any more. I went home at 3 a.m., and to this day have not had a more fun time purely dancing.

I’m not telling you to go to strangers houses and dance on their porches, nor am I asking you to listen to music purely from before our time — I did that in middle school, and it just makes you a cynical old person.

I guess what I’m saying is: find your funk porch and dance until you’re tired of hearing the Bee Gees.

Danny Cuneo is a junior television, radio and film major. The last watch he wore had Anakin Skywalker on it. His column runs every Thursday in Pulp. He can be reached at [email protected].

Published on April 1, 2015 at 11:36 pm