I love my dad. He’s always been a supportive, loving father, and that didn’t stop when I grew older and went to college. Until now. Recently, I have begun running into my dad at frat parties, and he pretends we haven’t met before.

Every time I walk into a party he is already there, ripping a spliff with boys one-third his age before seeing me and introducing himself. He asks me if “I go here.” He does this every time.

Though he won’t refer to me by the name he gave me eighteen years ago, my dad challenges me to pong every time we bump into each other, and he always wins. That’s not so bad except he takes his shirt off afterwards and snails me on the good game handshake, saying, “Great to meet you, duder,” while he pounds a beer.

When I ask him how mom’s doing, he’s like, “Bro, who?” and gives Shannon Lubeck’s waist a squeeze, which is so not cool because I told him about Shannon last semester. It’s like, pick anyone else.

“You over there! Slick! Shot for shot or I’m your daddy!”

But he already is.

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