On Oct. 13, a group of exhausted Boston College students return from the Notre Dame excursion to find a shredded scrap of beer-soaked parchment blowing around the deserted Mods among the fallen leaves. It blew aimlessly like a tumbleweed through a desolate ghost town. The remains are believed to be the memoirs from the last days of Matthew Yogg, A&S '08, who mysteriously vanished while all of his roommates and neighbors made the trip to South Bend, Ind.
While the writing appears cryptic and demented, we felt a duty to the BC community to publish this disturbing material in order that this act of abandonment is never repeated.
In Loving Memory of Matthew Robert Yogg (1985-2007):
The Memoirs of Matthew Yogg
Day 1
I wake up alone. The Mods are desolate, deserted, and disgustingly quiet. I am afraid. Today is Friday, but I cannot go to class. I do not believe that there is class, for there is no one to attend. I sit at my window for hours at a time searching for a familiar face or a familiar voice, but I see nothing, and hear only the eerie, unhappy whistle of the wind. It resonates with my inner soul like warm lips on a glass Coke bottle. A squirrel playfully saunters past my abode. I shout obscenities, mocking its ignorant bliss, for he knows not the misfortune that has befallen us. I retreat under my covers with a bottle of tequila. Today is a horrible day, and I am not prepared to face its realities. I love you all.
Day 2
I wake up today hungover from more than just alcohol. I am, however, determined to survive, to prevail against my impending demise. I must find a mate with whom/which to procreate in order to repopulate the Mods. It is a tall task, but I feel that I am up to it. In times like these I once looked toward one of my two idols for guidance, but not today. Bear Grylls was recently exposed as a fraud and a liar, while Rex Grossman rides the bench for the Chicago Bears after disappointing the team, but most importantly, disappointing me. I have gone days without receiving a phone call and have sent hundreds of unanswered text messages. I must survive on my own, without the contact, inspiration, or guidance of others.
Day 3
Today my sadness has turned into frustration. I found myself standing in a room with no chairs. Where this room was, I am not sure; what I was doing, I am not sure. A sense of delirium has set in: I am truly sick. The only thing that has kept me going is the distant thought of harassing Neil yet again, or imposing upon Chris Williams' relationship one more time. In the bathroom I have constructed a shrine in their honor. I found some beer cans under the couch, some hair in the shower drain, and a few American Kraft singles on the kitchen floor and I arranged them in the forms of three rhombi, the favorite shape of my dear friend George Toth-Demetriade. Oh, he was so beautiful! Thoughts smell like Keystone Ice. Healey/Hillman is the only answer. I have found God, I have found Buddha.
Day ?
A score of hours has past - or has it been months? - since I can remember the visages of my roommates. I have retreated into the deep, dark corners of my own psyche in which a brood of demons march in a menacing procession farther and farther into my lonely heart of darkness. They speak to me. I follow. I have decided the only way to see my missing comrades again is to go out myself to find them. I've begun to stock up on supplies for the long trip. I am not sure where they are or how I will get there, but I must find them, for their sake, and for my own. I am wearing two pairs of boxers, and Neil Johnson's flannel shirt. It still bears his musk. I am using it to track him down like a bloodhound following the trail of a long lost friend. I am going ...
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