Someone about whom much has been written is not Jacob. So here: here it is. Jacob. This is he, of which I speak, the man that birthed in me an insane fear of ending a sentence with a preposition, a man who only convinced me further that libertarianism made the most sense when you are drunk, a man who forged the conscience of our generation in the smithy of his soul. Don't let the burly Alaska-Man-Face fool you: inside there is a little Jacob folding his boxers, listening to Depeche Mode and dreaming of a 4.0.
As I gaze upon his visage, the good times come to mind, good times that I am sure that we are all glad of which not to speak.
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