Over winter break I took part in a painting class in my hometown Valdosta, entitled “The Painted Canvas.” It was being held at our local art gallery and my former place of employment “The Turner Center.” I love that place and attended an art show there the week prior. The art show was stellar, with several local artists showcasing their works for the town to see.
The painting class was held in a vacant building across the street. Easels were laid out in a row up front, cups of water were placed in front of us for different functions, and hair dryers were at the ready in case we needed to dry a canvas. I was the youngest by far, since I will not be eligible for retirement anytime soon, and learned some valuable lessons that I would otherwise not have learned in my younger and more formative years, particularly when it comes to motherhood and alcohol. As it turns out, red wine is good for your heart and you should drink as much of it as you can in the aftermath of a heart attack. At least one woman there had previously had a heart attack, and knew what she was talking about. The more you know!
One woman was also pondering the reasons why she would have one paint brush in her mouth, one in her left hand, and one in her right hand that was actually doing the painting. The woman teaching the class said that it was because when you’re at home you’re used to multi-tasking. You’re beating one kid for their behavior, berating your other kid for raising hell, and folding all of the clothes in your house all at once. Multi-tasking.
More importantly from this seminar, I learned that the actual artist rarely likes their own artwork. We were all much harder critics towards ourselves than anybody else was, despite the fact that everybody’s looked fabulous. Starting over and over again until my painting had ten layers of paint on it and was starched and ironed to perfection was inevitable.
It was surprisingly peaceful to paint my flower for four hours, even in the moments when it was frustrating. Staring so intensely at the contrasting colors made my head spin and I had to step back to see how it looked. I started by lathering the canvas in dark green paint and then free-handed my flower with a red colored pencil. Blending paint while still maintaining the finer details was trickier than I thought.
I applied a few layers of paint and felt like Amy in “Little Women,” making me suddenly wish that I was painting and doing yoga all across the world.
The finished product was a resplendent concoction of vibrant colors and, given its size and subject matter, I’m sure it will make a solid bathroom painting; the kind that you would set on the back of a toilet in a half-bath. According to my teacher, my flower was impressionistic with a leaning towards abstract and therefore, completely “New York” of me.
The class gave me a newfound zeal for painting and has me wanting to harken back to my old-school days of starting a new art project on a whim. Even though my dorm room is too cramped for full-fledged art projects, a girl can still dream.
Winter break is upon me and I have over a month off, a fact I plan to exploit in everything I do. I got into South Georgia five days before Christmas and then two days after Christmas I went to my grandparents’ house In Virginia for New Year’s. Now, in the new year and the new decade, I am back in my hometown of Valdosta, where I sleep in as late as I want while my parents go to work.
I’ve spent the break watching “Russian Doll” on Netflix because I love watching dysfunctional-woman shows, where the main character is a thirty-something year old wild, debaucherous woman who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, and sleeps around like she’s at Woodstock. “Fleabag” and “Russian Doll” make me want to chainsmoke, playfully ruin people’s lives, be the family black sheep, and have a dark past.
Instead of doing any of those things, I have been running hot bubble baths, lighting my Freddie Mercury candle, and playing Billy Joel in the bathtub. In other words, I’ve been spending my winter break partying like a 35 year old woman who has just sent her kids to her parent’s house for the weekend. I have to take advantage of the bathtub I have while I am here in Valdosta, because I don’t trust the one in my communal dorm up at college. I could bleach that bathtub before using it and still get HPV.
Normally, I listen to Prince in the bathtub so that I can feel like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” but now I’m going through a serious Billy Joel kick. I’m also going through a Britney Spears phase, but I’m just going to pretend like I’m not.
Instead of sitting around all day listening to “Uptown Girl” on repeat and watching shows about women who don’t have their lives together, I decided to cook dinner for my family. The idea was to cook dinner using a recipe from Chrissy Teigen’s cookbook “Cravings”, the only cookbook a gen-z-er can name with any certainty. It seemed like the perfect way to be productive while still relaxing. Cooking recreationally is a constructive and enjoyable task. Cooking because you have to is just a monotonous chore.
The plan was to cook a well-balanced meal, that consisted of zero vegetables, and was just steak tips and pasta. The first thing that went wrong was the fact that I could not find the shopping carts. I went straight to where they were, saw that they weren’t there, thought I was in the “Twilight Zone,” and then found them a few feet away. I had to turn around an entire corner to find them. Ridiculous. You move away and they move everything. The next thing that went wrong was that I realized that I left my grocery list at home. I filled it out the night before and consulted with my mother to make sure that we already owned ingredients such as salt and butter. As it turns out, we did.
First, I went around to the meat section and asked a woman who did not work there, which one was the New York Strip. She found it for me and I explained to her that I was cooking dinner for my family that night and only acting like I knew what I was doing. I trotted over to the dairy section and asked a woman who actually did work there where the creamy, not crumbled, bleu cheese was and where the block, not grated, parmesan cheese was. She said that if those were anywhere, then they’d be in the other dairy section, on the other side of the store. I went to that dairy section and asked another person who worked there where the cheese was. In the pasta aisle, held up a package of pasta and asked a random guy, who also didn’t work there, if he thought that there were 12 ounces of linguine in there. He pointed out to me the fact that the box said it had 16 ounces in it.
Then I tried to find the bacon, which was the biggest dumpster fire of the day. I lurked around the seafood counter, the one place I shouldn’t have been due to my potent seafood allergy, and I asked the man operating it where the bacon was. He pointed further on down from where I was standing. I scanned the area for longer than I am proud of, and still didn’t find it.
Then I bumped into some of my old friends from high school, who helped me find it, but it was pre-cooked Jimmy Dean bacon and I did not know how to say that I was looking for something else. I gave up and went to the vegetable aisle, where I bothered yet another man who did not work there by asking him, and I quote, “so which of these green things is the arugula?” He told me that that was probably in the salad aisle right beside us, and he tried to help me look.
It wasn’t there so I asked a person who worked there who straight up said “I don’t work in this section.” I then strolled over to a different section, where I creepily maneuvered behind a different guy who worked there, and debated whether or not I should stop and ask him a question; the first ounce of restraint I displayed all day. When I did finally ask the question, I probably could not have come up with a weirder way to do it. I held up the bacon box and then I held up the packaged steak.
I said, “Can I get bacon that is packaged more like this (the steak) than like this? (the bacon).” Raw. The word I was looking for was raw. He pointed me to the same direction that I was in the last time. I also asked him if he knew where the baby arugula was. He had no idea what that was. I went back to the bacon section, where I met the girl who told me where the cheese was in the beginning, and she asked me, “Did you find what you were looking for.” I said, “Yes but now I am looking for the bacon.” That was when she reached out in front of her, grabbed the bacon, and handed it to me. I had been staring at it the whole time.
I left after that with a store-bought cake and no arugula, because who needs vegetables anyway? There is absolutely no way that those employees didn’t all talk mad shit about me. I could honestly hear just one of them saying, “Hey did you see that girl in the leather jacket who looked about eighteen and acted like she had never been in a grocery store before? She doesn’t have her life together.”
It’s true that I could have bought the six things that I got in under an hour had I just looked at the signs and read the labels on the food, but I prefer to go straight to the experts. It’s like how men don’t want to ask for directions because they insist that they know where they’re going. If you just asked for directions in the first place, then you’d get where you’re going faster. In the end I went home and made my pasta and steak, both of which blew my family away. Then, as we ate, we watched You’ve Got Mail for the hundredth time. It was all a rare fleeting moment of productivity from yours truly.
You are getting no New Year’s resolutions from me. I intend to remain the same foul-mouthed, awkward, anti-social, self-oriented perfectionist that you have all come to know and love. But in the spirit of New Years, I would like to reintroduce myself.
I am sensitive and dramatic so I cry shamelessly at everything. This could be because I am a cancer. Alternative theories could be that I am just sensitive and dramatic. I like chai tea and chocolate cake donuts. I am pretty sure I have hypoglycemia and I don’t handle it well, due to my copious consumption of all things sugar. I have often regarded myself as a work in progress, so I might as well work on this as well. I consider myself to be a writer, first and foremost, and then a painter, a recreational swimmer, an occasional baker, a decent reader, a one-time gardener, a die-hard recycler, and your basic movie fanatic.
I have zero sense of direction and the most dramatic motion sickness of anybody I know. My math skills are nonexistent. Every year it was a battle to work my math grade up to a C and then charm my grade up to a B. I still count on my fingers but that’s only because I am more concerned with getting the answer right, than I am with my pride. I live and breathe the feminist agenda, which was not always a popular hill to die on at my high school, since feminism is often associated with bra-burning and unkempt underarms. My favorite type of cars are soft-top Jeeps of the Wrangler stick-shift variety, due to my possessing only that type of car.
I believe that German Shepherds are the best sentient beings and I regard them as nothing less than the greatest of God’s creation. They are smart, strong, beautiful, social, playful, and protective; making them better than most humans. For some reason I can’t explain, “Viva La Vida” by Coldplay is my favorite song. “Vienna” by Billy Joel has to be a close second. I am a modern woman with modern tastes. My favorite one-woman show is Fleabag. My favorite stand-up comic is John Mulaney. My favorite talk show host is Graham Norton. My favorite musician is Lizzo and my favorite musical is Hamilton. I am a testament to my generation and its greatness.
My first words were “chocolate milk” so I have had my priorities straight since the beginning. Like most people going to a hippie-liberal college, in order to learn how to write, I always speak the truth. I am striving to be more rebellious than straight-laced, not that it is usually a conscious decision. My goals in life consist of me being a great writer and then taking my money and opening a Women’s Crisis Center.
Right before I left town for the holiday break, my friend Anahat and I ventured into the city to go ice skating at Bryant park. We were hoping that it’d get us in the holiday spirit. For those who haven’t been, every Christmas season, you can go shopping at a Christmas village and ice skating at the rink. All of the vendors sell their products in glass houses, the type of buildings you conjure up when you hear that proverb about throwing stones.
We began our evening by milling around the shopping village. I’m always interested to see what vendors deem worthy to sell at a place where you can literally sell anything. There was the usual jewelry, New York-themed paintings, leather-bound objects, wood carvings, pottery, and a whole smattering of others. There were also food vendors serving us up our dinner of $9 dumplings. After soul-crushing line after soul-crushing line, we finally made it onto the ice. I didn’t fall down once, but that is only because I didn’t move very fast. Lifting or moving my feet wasn’t exactly my forte. I had pegged Anahat as the clumsiest person I knew but she practically glided across the ice in comparison to my comically terrible ice skating.
My ice skating didn’t remain terrible. Eventually, I managed to speed up and maneuver my way around the rink. The blades were so thin and offered such little support that it felt like an evening in heels, but it was the good kind of pain, where you feel like you exhausted yourself in the name of fun.
I kept looking down at my feet, but every now and then I would look up. There was something beautiful about the synchronized blur of people shuffling across the ice. I had never seen such organized chaos before. There were couples clinging to one another and others stopping for a photo. Expert ice skaters were weaving in and out of the crowd, whizzing past me just to flex.
The Christmas tree was nothing more than a dotted blur that gleamed imprecisely in my impaired vision, but was still, nonetheless, a beautiful and all-important tree. The best part was when I looked straight up at the skyscrapers at just the right moment. As you come around the curve, just past the Christmas tree, and look up just for a second, you catch a glimpse of the skyscrapers. Then you have to look down again before you bump into someone. If you look up at just the right moment, you can see the Empire State Building. Ice skating with a view.
Christmas carols seamlessly blended into the best hits of the 80s. I could barely skate in general, much less in sync to “Thriller.” My favorite part of the evening was when I was clutching onto the railing and passed by a trio of drunk girls. The first one said to me, “That looks hard. Is it?”
“Yeah, it’s hard.”
“Are you from here?”
“Where are you from?”
“You’re from the Bronx? Like Jlo?”
“No, I’m not Jenny from the block.”
“You look like Jlo.”
I moved on, towards her friends who were moderately less drunk and laughing their asses off at their friend.
“You’re friend is fun,” I told them.
As I moved along, I am pretty sure that she asked me if I knew JLo.
Recently, I had been given the most delicious offer that I could imagine; an offer that played right into my desire to do thrilling, cosmopolitan things. My Italian class was taken to go and see “Madame Butterfly” at the Metropolitan Opera.
I was excited, not only because I was going to see a high-end work of art, but also because this sounded more like the sultry beginning to a romantic-suspense novel, in which an eighteen year old girl goes to the opera and it changes her life. I showed up ready to feel cultured as hell. I was going for chic, fashionable; trying to be one of those interesting New York women who makes people turn their heads so fast that they get whiplash. Using professor youtube as my guide, I put my hair in a bun and mentally-prepared myself for when my updo would fall through. After squeezing myself into a dress that I can only fit into if I force it over my head and not my hips, I jammed my feet into a sassy pair of bows-on-toes, super-high heels that would have made Carrie Bradshaw weep tears of joy. I have had the dress since the sixth grade, which might explain why it was cutting off circulation in my armpit.
My class and I experienced “Madame Butterfly” and I petition that we change the title of the opera to “men are trash,” since that is the overarching message. For those of you who don’t know, the opera is about a teenage Japanese geisha girl who marries an American soldier, only to have him leave her. She marries him for love, because she is a wonderstruck child who still believes in such concepts, whereas he marries her mostly because it was fashionable. Everybody insists that he has left her for good but she is in denial due to her naivety, despite the fact that he has been gone for three years. When the soldier’s friend, the counselor, tries to explain to her that their marriage is no more, she exposes the fact that she has a child. Her husband comes back and she is excited because she thinks that her husband is finally returning to her, but in reality he is bringing his new wife in order to collect their child. The woman is devastated and, in proper opera fashion, she kills herself.
Blush-pink rose petals being showered down on opera singers, may have been the most resplendent aesthetic I have ever seen, and made every unmarried person in the audience plan their wedding. Above the stage was a large mirror that showed the audience what was going on behind all of the set pieces and created a bold reflection whenever there was an elaborate costume. The opera singers hit such high notes that it didn’t sound like human voices anymore. My limited Italian came in handy, but I was also guided by the subtitles on the backs of the chairs in front of me.
I obsessed over every aspect of that night, but one of my favorite parts of any posh night is the dressing up part. I was proud of the sleek look that I put together, even though it did not take long to fall apart. Later that night, once I was no longer around anybody who had seen me prior to, I really let myself go and a girl from my writing class saw me walking barefoot through a cold parking lot, wearing only one earring, and appropriately asked me “ya, good?” I was definitely fine, but was craving that post-outing decompress, where you let your hair down and put on sweatpants after an eventful night. Back in my room, surrounded by some much-appreciated warmth that I had been deprived of when walking around in a short dress and heels, I scrubbed off all of my makeup and unwound.
I am a modern woman with modern tastes.I am a testament to my generation and its greatness, so it should be no surprise that “Fleabag” is my favorite show, aside from the West Wing. Since “Fleabag” is my favorite TV show it should also follow that “Fleabag” is my favorite one woman show. “Fleabag”, for those of you who do not know, is an Amazon original, based on Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s one woman show. Phoebe Waller-Bridge holds the distinction of being the writer, creator, and star of the Prime original, as well as the writer/producer of “Killing Eve,” and, of course, she’s a down-ass bitch. Aside from being my woman crush everyday, Waller-Bridge sold out theaters in the West End, was nominated for eleven Emmys, and hosted SNL.
Therefore, you can imagine how excited I was when I scored two tickets to a screening of Phoebe Waller-Bridge performing her one woman show in the West End. A movie theater that specialized in airing pre-recorded plays, was selling the tickets. Having purchased two tickets, I decided to make a friend and invite them. I bought the tickets in September, giving me ample time to make the cuts in my friend collection, and by that I mean I picked from a group of three people. I decided to invite my good friend Sofia from my creative writing class, who I thought would appreciate the one woman show.
She was really excited for it, as was I, but she had actually not seen the “Fleabag” TV show. I still do not understand the mythical ways of the subway system, so she planned the logistics of the trip. I do not know when to get off, which subway to take, how to know when you have reached your destination, how many blocks each subway goes and so forth. If I take the subway, there is a very good chance that I will end up in Nova Scotia.
Fortunately, Sofia is the type of person who knows when to get off the subway and which subway you must take from there. Me, being the girl who got lost in her one story house as a child, let her take the lead. So with Sofia as my sherpa guide, we ventured into the city. We were delivered to the Leonard Nimoy Thalia Symphony Space Theater safely, and found some good seats.
As we were sitting there, waiting for the production to start, it occurred to me that I might not have pregamed her for the raunchiness and the obnoxiously oversexed humor of Phoebe Waller-Bridge. For those of you who think that this is no big deal, I would just like to state that the line I remembered the best from the show was “there is a hand print on my wall from when I had a threesome on my period.” I later learned that Sofia’s favorite film was “Inglorious Bastards” and was glad to discover that our taste in performing art was more distatesful than wholesome.
The play was excellent. I can’t get over how talented and witty Phoebe Waller-Bridge is. Her monologue was exceptionally written but it was enhanced by her impeccable line delivery. She completely commits to the joke as shamelessly as her character believes the things that she says. Naturally, I also love the intensity of her female-perspective, which she spouts without alienating her male audience. A one-woman performance seems unfathomably hard, but Waller-Bridge made it look easy.
I was also surprised to see how many 50 and older people came to watch the show, since much of it was just stuff that you would joke about with your friends inside your living room. Yet there was an ornery old woman, doing a decent Methuselah impression and shushing people before the show even started. This isn’t to say that there was no depth to her work. It is actually a dark comedy about a depressed woman in the wake of her friend’s death, with a plot twist at the end.
I 10/10 recommend watching it. After the show, we went to “5 Napkin Burger,” a restaurant that we had both been to before. If you like eating a burger that is almost the size of your head and drips burger juice down the length of your arm, then this is the place for you. We ate and then thanks to Sofia, we took the right train back. We sprinted across Grand Central Station and reached our train right before it pulled out, and we were way too proud of that fact. All and all, I had a great time with my friend, watching Waller-Bridge crush it in a pre-recorded live performance.
In an attempt to save my money, I have not gone into the city these past few weekends, making me feel like a fairy princess that has been locked in a tower. Since I have nothing but downtime, I have caught up on my sleep and schoolwork and therefore am doing better in my classes, not that I was doing poorly before, mind you.
One of the ways that I find joy is by dressing up for my classes, easing any dullness that could be afoot. Some days I want to dress like a fashion icon, so I play “Vogue” by Madonna and practically shadow box across my room as I dress. I then leave my dorm room, channeling my best Carrie Bradshaw in my leopard print coat, listening to Lizzo through my Beats so that I can have confidence oozing out of every orifice. I walk into town to my local bodega, pretending that I am in the opening sequence of “The Devil Wears Prada.” One day for class I dressed up like Miranda Priestly, only to go back to my dorm room and watch Jeopardy!, the very definition of all dressed up with no place to go. Netflix put on more tournament episodes of Jeopardy!, giving my life meaning again. I am fully convinced that I would make the ideal Jeopardy! contestant: wit, charm, astounding intellect.
What is the prim-rose path, Alex? Who is Midas? What is paraffin?
Christmas is in sight and I am trying to hold off on being cheery until Thanksgiving is in my rearview mirror, although admittedly unsuccessfully. In the past, Christmas has come and gone so quickly that I felt like I almost missed it. I was shopping on Christmas Eve, phoning in gifts, and buying last minute Christmas decorations.
I already feel like I have missed out a bit on Halloween and am now feeling the belated urge to watch “The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina” and cast spells at midnight. To avoid those feelings, I am checking in early for Christmas. It is officially cold outside and it gets dark early in the day. That makes it Christmas season.
I need to start saving money soon so that my loved ones get more than just my thoughts and prayers for Christmas. Every year in the past, I have had a surplus of money in my bank account come Christmas time, and in some cases an actual comma in my bank account, but then Christmas happens and I spend it all. Now, losing my money after the holidays seems like a nonissue since I am going into the holidays with no money. Problem solved. This is because God knew that I would be too powerful if I could actually hold onto my money. All and all, everything is going swimmingly. Christmas is upon me, my bank account is dismal, but at least I have the comfort of knowing that I would kill it in Jeopardy!
Happy Halloween, witches! Today I have some wholesome fall content set to some tasteful pics of aesthetically pleasing autumnal trees.
Finally, I am living in a part of the country where the trees actually turn colors and there is a chill in the air when fall comes around. My campus has been turning orange and red all over with scattered leaves and I am convinced that fall leaves just about always look prettier than spring flowers. Every now and then, I’ll glance up and notice that the autumnal leaves look so vibrant and have sunlight streaming so intensely through them, that they remind me of stained glass windows. I always stop to take a picture of them and look like a weirdo who has never seen a tree before.
My obsession with having too many coats and mugs fits in quite nicely with the fall aesthetic. I have so far missed my opportunity to reread the Harry Potter books, something I am sure would be my favorite fall activity if I gave it a try, but I am still trying to drown myself in apple cider and hot chocolate. Every morning, I have been stuffing my face with banana bread, as a means of breakfast, with it being my fall pastry of choice. I have an entire hidden stash of loaves of banana bread in my dorm room and I am hoping to make it to my next break, having lived almost entirely off banana bread.
On Halloween day, I donned cat ears, drew on whiskers, and painted on some cat eye makeup, despite not being a cat person. I topped it off with all black clothes, a cheetah print coat, a cat bowtie, furry fingerless gloves, and black ankle boots. I make a fine feline, in case there was any question. I went to all of my classes on Halloween dressed like a cat and was pleased to find that I was far from the only one.
My Halloween door decorations won the contest, earning me a bag of candy, that I am currently eating. Sitting around on Halloween night, picking through a bag of candy, while listening to a novel on audiobook, is not how I pictured spending my Halloween night, but the productivity alone makes my uneventful Halloween worth it.
I went to my school’s fall formal, which was area 51 themed, since my generation’s obsession with that place has given it party-themable qualities. When I walked into the party, I was sprayed with an air-hose by a person in a school-logoed hazmat suit like I was being decontaminated. The rest of the night took on a semi-normal course: dancing, sweating, overheating, realizing that you are wearing the same red dress as at least three other girls.
It was a Friday night. My homework was done and my responsibilities were all but nonexistent. I was about to heat up my Indian leftovers and watch a show about murder, when someone informed me that a party was going on. With it being so close to Halloween the party (naturally) was of the costume variety. I did not originally want to go but since my FOMO came on stronger than the inertia I felt towards leaving my room, I decided to get dressed in whatever costume I could conjure up and hopefully join in on the fun.
For reasons passing understanding, Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” was the only thing that came to mind, but couldn’t be more appropriate in terms of Halloween. Working with a limited range of materials, I wore garish, reptilian-looking eye makeup and a black crushed velvet tank top and jacket. I looked like a badger.
Midnight dreary is a pretty good way to describe my night, since it was dark, rainy, and cold; the ideal atmosphere for a lone raven. Since college has yet to make a good dancer out of me, my unsexy and seziuresque dance moves have not wowed at any parties. At every party I go to, I always set the same goal for myself and that goal is always to have a new experience. I would not exactly categorize boredom as a new experience but that was what I was left with. The whole group jammed themselves into a small room as they shuffled to bad music, unwillingly sober. I also was one of the only people dressed in a costume so being cast confused looks was a large part of my night. I sort of felt like everybody who was there was doing an emperor’s new clothes type of thing, where they all were too invested to admit that they were not having a good time. I could not stop yawning all night long so I flew back to my dorm room in order to ponder weak and weary in my chamber.
Around the same time that I was dressing like a carnivorous bird from a nineteenth century poem, I painted a serial killer smile on the door of my dorm, and then I covered it in crime scene tape, which might explain why my roommate stayed away for so long. My floor hosts a door decorating contest for Halloween, and much like with the raven costume, I was one of the only people who participated in it, and my contribution was me making an obscure reference that nobody understood. The design on my door was inspired by the show “The Mentalist,” which I spend just about all my free time watching.
By hitting the scene looking like vampira and painting sadistic smiles on my door, the Halloween spirit is alive and well in this one. Fortunately, my new experience at the party has taught me something about myself.
Will I ever go to a lame party against my better judgement again?
You intended to live a wild eighteenth year, filled to the brim with consequence-free debauchery and incompetence. You ended your high school career ready to break all the rules. You were going to try everything. You were going to have stories that would make your children clutch their pearls in the future.
Instead, you wake up every morning to a mindful meditation app that you like to listen to because it clears your mind and you find the woman’s voice soothing.You take an all-women literature class, that is basically an abstract book club, in which you read Jane Austen and you actually like reading Jane Austen. One of the ways you relax now is by watching gritty shows on Netflix, like “Mindhunter” and then going on Facebook to see what other people think about it. You are one step away from eating Special K in the morning because you want a convenient and nutritious breakfast. Now, among everything else you have to do, you have to schedule an exorcism to free yourself of the forty year old woman that has clearly possessed you.
Meanwhile, everybody is making out with each other and you suddenly realize that it is not a coincidence that everyone got sick at the same time. Eating each other’s faces off with Hannibal Lecter-like precision, is how other students get their kicks. You get yours from ordering food off Grubhub and Postmates so that you don’t have to go out to eat, and you look forward to the weekend so that you can take trips into the city. People around you get drunk off Fireball and Peach Schnapps even though both of those things taste like cleaning polish. You go to parties and people around you are drinking beer that is probably just 90% foam and water, but they are drinking it like it is an antidote to poison. Drunk girls at parties touch your hair and tell you that you are beautiful, but then their memories lapse like a goldfish and they don’t remember any of that. You are so much more docile in comparison to them, that you wonder if you are being slipped antidepressants without knowing it.
Although sometimes, your wild side- because you really do have one- comes out, and you dance on top of two tables and you body surf a crowd while dressed like a heroin-chic supermodel from the 90s. It was a decades-themed party and you always dress like a grungy, underfed 90s model for all decades-themed events, because, aside from being hot and an underrated costume choice, you look like you could be one. Other times you and your friends- because you really do have them- get kicked out of a party, because, in hindsight, that party was most likely being thrown by the Black Student Union and you weren’t invited.
Then, you arrive at this week.
The protein bars that you live off of are officially gone. You take vitamins so that you can feel alert in the morning. You OD on angry feminism in your dorm room at 2 am and that is one of the highlights of your night. You have since started rewatching “The Mentalist” because it’s another crime procedural and you might be in love with Simon Baker, so you and your mother like to discuss it.
And you know what: it doesn’t matter at all.
You wanna listen to the depressed and angsty playlist you made on Spotify? Go for it. Who’s going to know what you’re listening to? You wanna watch clips from “Legally Blonde” during your study breaks so that you feel motivated to finish your work? Do it. You will come off that high feeling like you can do anything. You wanna listen to inspiring Tom Petty songs on your way to classes that you are barely staying afloat in? Also doable. The trick is to live with intention, by being invested in whatever it is you choose to do to get you through the day. No judgement required.