I was a yearbook writer in high school. Yes, no need to comment, I know that is literally the most useless job in history. My memory of it is punishment enough, thank you. It kinda pains me to think about all of the hours I spent fixing comma splices in copies about homecoming dances and sophomore cheer seasons, but I guess the Orient has some sense of humor and considered that the same thing as writing jokes because I was literally hired as the comedy writer this year due to my experience in yearbook.
Sometimes I think Bowdoin was just a fever dream. After only getting to spend a semester and a half there, the whole thing could’ve just been an extended psychotic break, maybe a really vivid dream if I was lucky.
Let me set the scene. It’s early November in 2010. The squad and I are in my mom’s 1998 Subaru Outback, “California Gurls” by Katy Perry is bumping on the radio and I’m looking fly as hell in my jeggings.
Saturday marks one month since President Clayton Rose took a shotgun to the semester (rest in power Miss Bowdoin, 1794-2020), which means it has now been one month since I’ve felt any sense of agency. I’d like to think that I’ve kept some semblance of my college self together, but considering my tolerance is now half a White Claw and I can slowly feel myself going illiterate, that one might be a bit of a stretch.
When social distancing started, I decided it was time to clean out my phone. I mean, I hadn’t played Hay Day™ since (probably) the seventh grade, but there it was, taking up almost 2 GB of data (this is so shameful, I know).
With almost two weeks of social distancing under my belt, I’m about one bad Zoom call away from talking to the walls. I’ve run the gamut of classic quarantine activities, from finally purging my wardrobe of nostalgic high school t-shirts to telling myself I have the personality to get into baking (wrong).
