LEVEL 1:  The Progression

Like all great creations, the Beer-a-Mid stemmed from being drunk.  Just a few of us drinking,  causing a little harmless mayhem, and being lazy.  The empties were collected and saved as a means of checking our own individual drunk-progression.  For some reason, we were competing with each other to see who could destroy their short-term memory the fastest.  I'm not sure if people were trying to cheat or if they just couldn't remember, but every now and then there would be a drunken boast:

"I'm on number six!"

or...

"I'm on number seven!"

and sometimes...

"Twelve, motherfucker."

Boasts like these, under normal clean circumstances would be difficult to dispel, however our newfound laziness was an infallible measure.  Bullshitters beware! A simple glance toward a person's immediate area told the tale:

"Bullshit!  Look at your stack."

As quick as they were issued, such disputes were usually ended.

The fun went on and on, but eventually our best friend, "tomorrow morning", always seems to show up - whether or not we're ready for him to arrive.  Like an unwanted houseguest who pounds on your door, "tomorrow morning" pounds on your skull.  He wants your attention so that he can make you realize how terrible he makes you feel.  He's great.

After a great day of hanging out with said best friend, my brain still wasn't quite right.  I needed something to keep my god given ability to decipher and dole out rational thought.  On a side note, I'd like to ask that you turn a deaf ear to my grade school teachers - they are liars.  I do possess rational thought, but I was at risk of losing it due to an uncomfortable mixture of hangover, boredom, and re-runs of 'Family Matters'.  In order to stay active, I decided to arrange the empties.  I didn't dispose of them - or clean my room for that matter.  I arranged them.  It was fun.

LEVEL 2:  Drink, Stack, Crash, Restack

The Beer-a-Mid had become a fixture in the room.  It was a presence to be reckoned with.  However, it wasn't alone.  Long before the Beer-a-Mid, there was the Beer-Tower.  It was a glorious structure, created with the most cunning engineering:  Stack cans on top of one another until they hit the ceiling.  Nineteen Coors Light cans later, the Beer tower was born.  It's silvery Coors Light look light up my side of the dorm.  The Beer-Tower was friend to all.. or so I thought.

On one particular day, the Beer-Tower was dealt a fatal blow by someone who will remain nameless.  For weeks the cans lay scattered and unused as a testament of the destruction which had taken place.  Many people have asked to see the Beer-Tower, and a few asked to pay their respects:

"Yo dude.. where's all the fucking cans?"
"Someone tore them down."
"That sucks."

In a word: poignant.

Eventually, we came to the conclusion that the Beer-Tower would never be rebuilt.  We left the remains with that very intent, but it became evident that the Beer-a-Mid would be the prime structural focus in our room.  As an homage to the Beer-Tower, we decided to include the fallen cans which were willfully destroyed - horribly, willfully, and mercilessly destroyed.  They now stand tall as the Beer-a-Mid began to expand.

...and expand it did.

It became so big that the cans couldn't be pushed anymore.  At this point there were probably a hundred Miller Genuine Draft and Coors Light cans. They were being blown over by window-fans, and knocked into by more people who will remain nameless.  The Beer-a-Mid was rapidly losing the respect of outsiders, and was quite possibly becoming the target of overt jealousy.  It was at risk, but then it happened.  The Beer-a-Mid was completely leveled when someone crashed into it.  After countless sessions of the Beer-a-Mid being destroyed and resurrected, we decided to take greater measures of securing it.  We bought a piece of plywood and a shitload of glue.  With patience, the Beer-a-Mid was secure.

LEVEL 3: Beer Can Glory

LEVEL 4: The Sun Sets on the Beer-a-Mid

All things must come to an end.  The end of a semester, the end of the Beer-a-Mid.  We were torn between a Viking funeral and just getting it over with.  In the end, we didn't bother to give the Beer-a-Mid the fiery river ride it deserved.  We settled on a damn fine box of plastic bags.

Six huge bags were filled that day, the last of which bearing a sign:

The Beer-a-Mid still rocks.