Legacy

Dear Summer,

This year, many of my friends confused you with Christmas break — traveling home to compete in video game tournaments, drinking nightly cases of Coors and spending money on Super Soakers and weed for their “much-needed” trips to Gulf Shores.

Oh Summer, I constantly had work to do, but you still tempted me with your marathons of Dog: The Bounty Hunter one night and Intervention the next, your Sausage McGriddles and chicken nuggets at 2:30 a.m and your games of strip poker that went accordingly until I revealed my hairy chest.

Your spontaneity was my curse, but I couldn’t just sit at home and give in to your awesome garbage. So I challenged myself, giving up reality television binges and adopting new lifestyles in order to break through my banal routine. I became a new person four times in an effort to dodge your dirty talk and nasty ways.

On becoming a caffeine addict

One cup around seven a.m. used to do it. After a small brew from Mr. Coffee, I began my daily routine of checking e-mail while watching ESPN while listening to death metal while throwing darts across the room. Then the Coca-Cola kings bestowed a new magic upon me: energy drinks.

Thanks to Rockstars and Red Bulls, my bulging eyes noticed the tiniest details — the dust lining the dashboard, the crumbs along the cup holders, the single hair in the salsa at the Mexican shack off Jefferson Highway.

perfected the art of multi-tasking, like eating cereal in the shower and shaving my entire body during my lunch break. Three-way phone calls with family and bicycling through campus traffic went hand-in-hand.

“Forget the health risks of high blood pressure and shaky hands. I’m only 20!” I thought. “These glorified Mountain Dews won’t affect me in the long run.” Besides, who cared about a heart when I felt like Steven Seagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme and Wesley Snipes in one?

“Who needs recreational, yuppie drugs like Adderrall and cocaine when I can have a 16-ounce, caffeine-taurine-ginseng-laced carbohydrated fusion of fun?” I certainly didn’t. But my newfound habit of yelling at people during normal conversation was making me feel low again.

“You OK?”

“SURE I’M OK, I JUST HAD THAT ROCKSTAR! WHAT ABOUT YOU? HUH, HUH?”

“Why are you yelling?”

My life quickly morphed into an ongoing episode of Hell’s Kitchen. It was back to the single cup of coffee and darts.

On becoming a rapper

A prominent singer-songwriter, guitarist and tubist since the age of five, I have had my share of musical phases: my ecstasy phase doing house beats, my weed phase jamming with strangers for 20 minutes at a time, my pills phase penning songs for the new Hannah Montana album. But after numerous D.A.R.E. courses and not having money for rehab programs, I needed to gaze at a new star. I looked to Lil Wayne.

From the moment I heard Tha Carter III, I realized hip-hop, rap and R&B were the only musical genres I hadn’t tried. But who was I kidding? Today’s giants hit the record button and have four-minute freestyles; I stutter when ordering a sandwich at Subway. Nevertheless, after listening to Lil Wayne’s new album, I began my journey to get on BET’s 106th and Park.

I bought sunglasses at Dollar General. Leaned my Mazda seat so far back I couldn’t see the brake lights in front of me. Upgraded the speakers with quality tweeters from Sears. Got a tattoo of my mom’s name on my face. And bought stock in Louis Vuitton and Gold Bond.

After spending $3,000 on these minor adjustments, I put in quality time in the booth. Or, in my case, a Radio Shack mic hooked to my laptop. Days later, I had created my first hip-hop album, entitled, Put Ya Hands on my Ass! (KLSU has yet to play any tracks, but I have faith.)

In my short-lived career, rapping proved harder than I’d anticipated, with my trouble writing rhymes and touring various civic centers and Knights of Columbus halls. Family-wise, my mother preferred my acoustic gems and threatened to take away my trust fund if I didn’t remove the tattoo.

My appearance on 106th and Park is on temporary hold.

On becoming an environmentalist

On a serious note, Summer, I finally acknowledged your cruel temperatures and tackled “going green.”

With your warnings of inconvenient truths upon me, I wanted to help solve this nationwide crisis. After seeing advertisements in which companies like Starbucks, Target and Pampers were donating a small percentage of their sales to green causes, I bought coffee, trendy shirts and diapers in bulk. I’m positive a portion of my $800 spree is helping the world change. I then decided to camouflage my body brown and green to become one with my backyard. Late at night, I hunted squirrels and neighborhood cats for food. During the day, I crushed the hoods of Yukon XLs with my fists while yelling, “Take that, big oil!”

My next contribution was babysitting my friend’s kids. He was a Republican, so I turned on all the lights in his house, kept the water running and fed his children Big Macs. After dinner, I let them watch Taxicab Confessions. He didn’t notice a thing and I was paid $50. Not a bad day’s work living the green dream.

But my environmentalist crusade faded into oblivion when my neighbors noticed their cats were missing and my friend’s toddlers began discussing sexual positions — some inconvenient truths even I couldn’t deny.

On becoming a gun owner

With my rapping career and the green mission flailing like injured birds, I journeyed home to find solace in your last precious days.

West Monroe — home of the Rebels, our lord and savior Jesus Christ and the paper mill. Having been born and raised in Northeast Louisiana, I realized to my dismay that I had never owned or shot a gun. The West Monroe constitution says plain and simple, “Police are just historians. You need yourself some protection.” That advice in mind, I went to Wal-Mart with mee-mee and pa-paw and bought a 300 Remington Ultra-Mag rifle for $244.95.

I was ready for anything: opossums on my porch, homeless people on College Drive begging me for change, zombies. Hell, if a party needed entertainment, I just yanked it from my closet. And with numerous LSU students pushing for concealed weapons on campus, I had found a new purpose.

Some left-wingers gave me nonsense about how I might accidentally shoot off a toe or shatter a beaker in Chemistry 2012. I replied with the constitution in mind, “Listen here, going to class with my rifle strapped securely on my back is like wearing a seatbelt.”

I signed up for weekly meetings at a Baton Rouge bar for gun supporters. At first I was excited to shake hands with fellow men of God, then I realized these men owned two copies of every Nickelback album, drank Jager Bombs and oil and thought President Bush was the smartest guy since Alfred Einstein.

“Guns, fuggedaboutit!” I thought at my final meeting. True Italians like De Niro and wannabe Italians like me don’t need guns to talk. My gun-toting quest ended like every other trip to West Monroe — with affirmation and a desire for sanity.

I returned to Baton Rouge decaffeinated in a gas-guzzling Mazda, peering in my rearview to make sure the Remington wouldn’t accidentally fire off with Kansas’ “Carry On My Wayward Son” blaring from the speakers.

Thanks for nothing, Summer.

Yours truly,

Matthew Sigur

(Former) Caffeine Addict, Musician,

Environmentalist, Gun Owner, Alcoholic