November 11, 2015


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Wake up two hours later than intended because in a fun ironic twist, while getting high to forget about how much you hate living, you forgot to set your alarm. Stare at the ceiling for approximately 30 minutes. Acceptable brainwave topics for your daily ceiling stare include but are not limited to: the schoolwork you avoided doing last night, the annoyed glare that one kid in your seminar shot at you when you asked a question two weeks ago, your lack of contributions to the world compared to Einstein or Barbara Streisand or the girl three doors down who really seems to have her shit together. Reach to your desk and unlock your phone. Stare at social media for another 10 minutes in order to compare every aspect of your physical and emotional being to your 1,000 closest friends, and, as usual, come up short in every category. Call your mom. Tell her you’re sorry (again) and sad (again) and having trouble getting out of bed (again). She’ll tell you she loves you (again) and wishes she could make all of this self-loathing go away (again) and to really please maybe just for today try to get out of bed (again).

You get out of bed, shaking off a Clif bar wrapper, a half-eaten can of strawberry jam, and the end piece of a whole grain loaf of bread. You glance at the clock. You now have 15 minutes to get to class. You throw your hair up and put on the loosest, cleanest clothing you can find in the weekend coma’s residue of missed assignments, candy wrappers and dirty laundry. Don’t even bother looking in the mirror; you don’t have the 30 minutes needed to truly scrutinize your paunchy post-binge stomach, the 10 minutes to gag at your greasy clogged pores. Walk to class. Pretend you’re invisible; don’t taint the bright day with your dismal lethargy. Ignore the chitchatting students passing you by who are so good looking and well-dressed that they could be in a J. Crew ad. Listen to sad acoustic nineties guitar music. Cry, but wipe the tears away immediately. Stare at your shuffling feet. Get to class 15 minutes late. Take notes on your laptop halfheartedly as the professor rambles on and on about a topic you would probably find fascinating if you were okay. Think about the overwhelming amount of work you have to do today. Type. Think about your past failures. Type. Think about your future failures. Type. Think about going back to bed. The class mercifully comes to a close, halting your buzzing neurons. Snap your laptop shut and file out of the classroom with your classmates. Avoid eye contact. Trudge back to the library and hesitate at the entryway. Turn back to smoke a cigarette. The nicotine makes you nauseous. Call your mother for the second time that day, hoping that hearing her voice will motivate you to do schoolwork, or anything, really. It doesn’t. You decide while on the phone to skip your second class and go back to bed. You tell her you’re going to the library to study. You go back to your room, turn all of the lights off and curl up in a ball at the foot of your bed. Maybe tomorrow will be okay. Maybe tomorrow.

Rebecca Kruger is a decidedly undecided freshman in the college of Arts and Sciences. She is a fan of cats, black coffee, whiny girl bands and anything made out of corduroy. Emotionally Stuntin’ appears on alternate Wednesdays this semester. She can be reached at [email protected].