Humor editor bets you are jealous that you didn’t document your entire Sunday too

Sunday, 3:00 a.m.: I do my best to scrub the sharpie-d tattoos off of my chest. I become extremely convinced that sharpie is some kind of magical ink that is never going to be able to be removed, and therefore that I now have tattoos. I snapchat my Mom a picture with the caption “brand new tattoo!” She is both a little off-put by receiving a snapchat of my chest area first thing in the morning, and also proud of me for representing my majestic inner jungle cat in the exact same manner as the rapper Eve. I mean, she didn’t exactly SAY as much, but I can read between the lines.

Sunday, 11:00 a.m.: I wake up, roll out of bed and head downstairs to stare at my housemate while she makes eggs until she catches my drift that I want her to be cooking me breakfast too. I could make myself eggs, but she can do that thing with the hole in the toast like the guy does in V for Vendetta and that is both a delicious way to eat eggs and also I try to live my life as closely following that movie as I can minus the shaved head/time in prison/exploding important buildings part of it. So, really, it’s pretty much just the eggs.

Sunday, 12:30 p.m.: My housemate and I head to the Vassar men’s rugby game at Marist. Here’s a question for my readers: WHY DOES MARIST HAVE LIKE FOUR (THOUSAND) GATES? They all are really big and have these foxes on them (restraining myself from my fourth Yvlis reference in four articles) and we went through the wrong one and ended up at their boat house where instead of 30 men tackling each other we found a solitary girl who appeared to be trying to meditate. Oops.

Sunday, 12:55 p.m.: We get bored of heckling the meditating girl and my housemate goes back to driving in circles around the Marist campus, while I play a new game I invented where you find how many pairs of Ugg Boots I can spot within a minute. Good times!

Sunday, 1:00 p.m.: We find the field, where there is no scoreboard and their goalposts appear to be drunk. We have that in common, except no one is trying to kick a ball at me. Lily: 1, Marist goalposts: 0.

Sunday, 2:30 p.m.: The men win, I get a lot of really sweaty hugs, and I try to smuggle away some nice family’s massive Newfoundland dog by saying I hurt my leg and need a ride up to my car. I then try to saddle the dog and ride away. Not successful.

Sunday, 4:00 p.m.: I become extremely disturbed by the fact that the mudroom in our TH smells like feet. I get that we force everyone to take off their shoes before entering, but is there a way to also force people to have better smelling feet?

Sunday, 4:05 p.m.: After extensive googling, I am pretty sure that the only way to make people’s feet smell better is to sneak into their room at night and fill their shoes with potpourri.

Sunday, 4:10 p.m.: I start making some potpourri and use Stalk Banner to gather information on where everyone I know lives, because I bet their feet smell bad too.

Sunday, 4:30 p.m.: I go to work study, which is at UpC, and essentially consists of sitting at a desk and doing things like watching live streams of football and writing humor articles while I have the readings that I should be doing open next to me so I look “studious.” This beats the crap out of my old work study, which was sitting in the basement (dungeon?) of Admissions and wondering what daylight is like while listening to the office workers discuss who cheated on who in Real Housewives of New Jersey. Oh, I also alphabetized stuff, which is hilarious in itself because I have no idea how the alphabet goes.

Sunday, 8 pm: I order Bacios to UpC, because it’s senior year and I have misplaced all of the f*cks I am supposed to give. You can’t tell what that word is because I put in the star right? Coolio!

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