Dear reader. I think so much. It gets uncomfortable in my head with all those thoughts taking up so much space. I put my thoughts in poems so my brain doesn’t get squished by the weight of childhood memories consisting of me holding a stick in various locations and reruns of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Poems are like little glass jars filled with pickled organs. And the organs are so pickled, they’re almost translucent. As Bryce Shivers and Lisa Eversman of Portlandia fame once said, “We can pickle that.” That’s just beautiful. I made a custom embroidered pillow on the internet which says “We can pickle that.” I didn’t buy it though. One day, the whole world will be pickled. You can just dump stuff in a poem and then forget all about it. And then get famous while people theorize about your sexuality.
“Will I be featured? Are you recording me? Oh hiiiii!!!”
“I feel like I was not drunk until I very much was”
“You guys need to do this interview, it made me realize a lot.”
One of Kenyon’s most beloved traditions occurred this weekend. An all expenses-paid booze-festival in the glowing Thomas Hall, seniors gather in formal wear and never look back. We asked our senior staff for their personal experiences of the night, and they didn’t disappoint.
“It was sorta like prom but with people that you actually like and with booze. I actually spent a lot of time talking to people who were in my first year hall who I haven’t spoken to in forever. I then tore the button off my pants and spilled red wine down one leg, and spent most of the next day saying “you have nobody to blame but yourself.” Overall, I’d give it a 9/10, would recommend to a friend ”
It’s Monday, and some of the seniors are finally done picking up the shambles of their post-Soiree night. Soiree was a classy affair, worthy of the likes of Mr. Peanut or the guy from the Monopoly board game. We sang karaoke, took pictures with our first year year roommates, and realized with glee that some people who we had thought graduated were actually still here, and had been in our grade all along.
Senior class president Maddy Jacobs ’15, along with the rest of the senior class committee, was in charge of cleaning up the aftermath in the Great Hall on Saturday night. The clean-up crew currently has a collection of single stiletto shoes, jackets and purses that would suggest that many of the seniors left Peirce half-barefoot and penniless. I sat down with Maddy to see if some of what they found could help us piece together the remainder of our existence:
Soiree was on Saturday night, and everyone went into it with preconceived notions passed down by seniors prior. As Summer teaches us, what you expect is never how it really is. Put on The Smiths and see how things really unfolded.*
- Senior A — Don’t know what I’m gonna wear, but know I’m gonna get wasted.
- Senior B — Classy and trashy.
- Senior C — I will find the perfect dress that makes me feel both like an emerging adult and like a child at heart and I will dance the night away.
- Senior D — “Oh my god I’m so excited but this year is going by so fast! / HELP SATAN FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK SATAN AAAAAAHH I DON’T WANT TO DIE”
- Senior E — “mayeb i will get blisters on my feet but food and fun and friends are worth it i think”
- Senior F — Moist and mighty, like Moaning Myrtle’s last stand.
- Senior G — I expect Soiree to be like an Inaugural Ball: I am Michelle Obama, and Beyonce is serenading me, and being “escorted out” by “campus safety” for “stripping” will never change that.
- Senior H — OMG. Soiree has all the elements of a popular story. It reeks of all-Americanness, tension and drama. It has romance. Pretty dresses. Dancing. Limos. College. Coming of age. I can’t wait for senior soiree.