Picture this: August, 2014, fresh from Outdoors Pre-O, but not yet through the weird-but-friendly social hellscape that is First Year Orientation. So many new people in a relatively new place. Just as David Foster Wallace once professed, “this is water” as a call to clarity in the face of oppressing banality, I was strikingly aware of the voice in the back of my head that said “these are going to be your friends for the next four years, make a good impression or be left by the wayside.” Continue reading
It was Parent’s Weekend my freshman year. I was surrounded by students who stunk of Ozium and hangover sweats, all collectively pretending that we weren’t glad as hell that our parents had come back for us a mere month into college. All was going well. Continue reading
I can never return to the Mount Vernon Marshalls. That’s how dumb my Dumbest Thing I Ever Did is. It’s a damn shame too, because my stupidity prevented me from buying the one thing I went to Marshalls to buy.
This semester, I decided to take a seminar about Russian literature in English translation. I don’t speak Russian, I don’t think I had ever read a book originally written in Russian beforehand, but the course sounded interested, At Kenyon You Will, etc. And the class was going fine until I not only missed over an hour of class by looking at rugs, but also convinced approximately half of my class to do the same. (Names changed to the names of popular children’s book characters to protect privacy.)
At the glorious age of 15 (yes, 15, admittedly too old for this to happen), my favorite activities included binge-watching The Walking Dead, and searching my asthma symptoms on Web M.D. and diagnosing myself with immaculate conception. I never shook the latter hobby, as on average I send a picture of my tonsils to my mother twice a week to make sure I’m not dying. It was fall 2014. The Houston air was transitioning from humid to slightly less humid, and I had traded in my Sperry’s for a darker look of a Miley Cyrus lob, and a Sharpie tattoo of a triangle that captured the essence of my new high school identity.
Greetings, friends. I’m going to take you on a journey. The year is 2013, and I am young and sweet, only seventeen. I decided to go to a Zumba class in town with two of my friends even though I hate Zumba because I have no coordination or endurance. During said Zumba class I was mocked by a 70-year-old woman behind me who had muttered not so quietly under her breath “it’s just a simple box step.” As you can probably guess, that somehow wasn’t even the worst part of my day.
Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. Do I have a story for you! Ever wondered what happens when you dump an entire bowl of (literally) boiling noodle water all over your two leggies very late on a Saturday night? Me freaking neither, but I sure as heck found out last weekend! Buckle up, folks, because you’re in for an article-long rant about why you should never let me near any sort of kitchen appliance ever again! I present to you: The Noodle Incident. No noodles were harmed in the making of this article. Just kidding. They were harmed. My laptop was harmed. I was harmed. Everything is pain. Enjoy.