Are you there God? It’s me, Lily, and I don’t understand how to put out a grease fire

I’ve never been much for keeping a journal, but it’s supposed to be good for your “mental health” and “self-awareness.” At least, that’s what I read in Seventeen. It’s apparently also a good way to plan your outfit of the day, so you can get take those extra five minutes in the shower and piss off your neighbor who really needs to get in there because they have class at 10 and it’s 9:40. Too bad, neighbor, you shouldn’t have gotten Bacio’s last night and then refused to give me a garlic knot.

Anyways, I can’t really think of a better time or place to start a journal than right now—I’m 21; it was just Halloween weekend and why WOULDN’T I want it to be published for everyone on campus to read?

Friday, 10:46 a.m.: Wake up dressed in what could only be considered “business casual,” clutching my fellowship application. My pillow is propped up, wearing glasses, and doing it’s pillow-y best to hold a clipboard. I have got to stop talking about my future when I’m at Billy Bobs. This drunk practicing isn’t getting anyone anywhere, and I think I’m starting to develop feelings for my pillow interviewer. I’ve always been attracted to figures of authority.

Friday, 1:00 p.m.: I walk halfway to the gym before realizing that my energy shouldn’t be confined by an indoor space. I make the positive lifetime decision to go to the Retreat, buy a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and go back to my room (with the window open) so I could kind of think about Googling an ab workout video to do on my floor. I fall asleep.

Friday, 6:00 p.m.: I wake up from my “nap.” Everything is dark. I’m not really sure what day it is, but luckily I am keeping this journal so I’m like 60 percent sure that it’s still Friday. I decide to go downstairs and make breakfast just in case it’s actually the morning, and also because it’s the only thing I can cook.

Friday, 6:02 p.m.: I accidentally start a miniature grease fire in my house.

Friday, 6:03 p.m.: I yell obscenities loudly while I pull up Luis Inoa’s school-wide e-mail on how to prevent dorm fires. Apparently you are supposed to smother them? Does that apply to grease? I’m starting to think I should eat something other than entire packs of bacon, because I have the sneaking suspicion that had something to do with the origin of this raging fire. Also, I’ve been worried about my cholesterol lately, you know? It’s a serious health problem and…. wait, why has the fire alarm not gone off yet? I just used the adjective “raging.” Isn’t that when the alarm should kick in?

Friday, 6:03 p.m.: I decide I should stop journaling about this grease fire.

Friday, 6:05 p.m.: Apparently you CAN smother a grease fire. Unfortunately, I owe my house mate a new sweater.

Friday, 9:00 p.m.: Less than 15 of my friends come over. That’s right, I took the party class. We also are eating a loaf of bread made into sandwiches for every beer we drink. You’d think Vassar would be a little more concerned about our carb intake, but I guess not.

Friday, 11:00 p.m.: Less than 15 of my friends are now asleep on various surfaces of my house. One of them is crying alone in the corner about her unrequited love for Bob Brigham, declaring that even though her pickup attempt in their meeting didn’t go as planned today, she would redouble her efforts tomorrow. Nothing says romance like “Ending Deadly Conflict.”

Friday, 1:00 a.m.: I fall asleep on the ground holding an ice cold Natty Ice to my grease fire burns. Senior year is everything I dreamed it would be.

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