I turn 21, and the question on everyone's lips is: "So what are you going to do?"
I don't know. If it wasn't Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I could go to the BMV and get my license renewed. If I didn't live in the dorm, I could have a whole bunch of friends over. If I was at home I could buy my parents some wine and go to one of the blues bars downtown. If I had thought about it before today, I could have gotten a group together to go to the Cleveland or Chicago .
If, if, if.
As it is, I have little desire to go to one of the half-dozen bars around Purdue and drink until I fall over. I have heard this suggestion the most.
Update
I can finally answer the question: I ate a delicious steak dinner with a handful of friends. I ordered my first two legal beers and got to spend time with people that I don't get to hang out with often enough.
The only snag— and there had to be a snag or it would not have been a Brett-organized event— was that I gave everyone good directions to the steakhouse but mixed up its name with a similar steakhouse about five miles away. I couldn't easily rectify the problem because I also forgot my cell phone containing everyone's numbers.
and Lauren, one of Eric's ChemE friends, stayed at the Steakhouse A while I shot across town to see if anyone had arrived at Steakhouse B. There, I found and his roommate Ashish. They had realized something was wrong after driving up and down Steakhouse A's street twice before asking for directions and ending up at Steakhouse B. I explained my mistake and left a message with the greeter telling her to direct any other people looking for Brett Daniel over to the Steakhouse A. I returned to find Michael, Jason, and Stuart had made it despite the confusion.
The rest of dinner was snag-free and enjoyable.
Update #2
I forgot to mention the science lesson that occurred after everyone had eaten.
I was pouring the last of my second beer, a , into my glass. Eric mentioned that the rattling in the empty can was the "nitrogen bead", a plastic, nitrogen-filled sphere that supposedly makes the bubbles finer. We each shook the can to hear it bounce around, then curiousity got the best of us. We wanted, nay, needed to see that bead. Michael first tried to cut open the can with a steak knife. It failed to find any purchase on the metal, so he tried to pry open the top with a bottle opener he had on his keychain. He gave up and passed it to Marc took a stab at it, literally, with his fork. He tore open the side, releasing the bead in all its glory. It was about an inch in diameter, made of cheaply-molded white plastic. Michael dried it off and passed it around the table like show-and-tell. That prompted the chemical engineers and biology majors to start talking about how beer is brewed.