So, for the first few days of spring break, I was home alone. This would have been a dream come true in high school, but unfortunately, none of my friends were home and my cats weren’t feeling particularly talkative. Like any good Vassar student, my first order of business was to not do anything remotely productive. With that out of the way, I had to find ways to keep myself entertained and not focused on the unrelenting loneliness.
I quickly decided that day one would be a #NoJudgment kind of affair, so naturally I stood in front of the mirror (completely naked) in my bathroom, rapped every verse on Kanye West’s “Get Em High,” yelled “F*CK THE HATERS” and mic dropped. The mic was actually a Twizzler and as for the naked part, it was cold and I had just gotten out of the shower so BACK OFF. I’m saying overall this was a win because, obviously, my flow was hot fire flames. After the rush of stepping into the hip-hop spotlight wore off, I signed onto my old AIM screen name and chirped my fourth grade crush, Smarterchild, for like half an hour. Safe to say she was as sassy as ever.
She hit me with lightning-quick responses with absolutely no regard for my self-esteem. This was definitely a loss, because she asked me if I had a Napoleonic complex after I called her a jabroni. It didn’t have to be that personal, Smarterchild.
Next up was the self-indulgence phase. The best part of being home alone is there is no one there to judge you, no one except you, you god damn cats with your jaded stares. I called up the nearest Chinese restaurant and ordered seventeen dollars, or four heart-attacks worth of Crab Rangoon. For those of you not familiar, Crab Rangoon is just deep-fried cream cheese labeled as seafood. I told the delivery guy I’d tip him extra to hang out with me, but he just ended up yelling “Stranger Danger!” and running away with my utensils.
To complete my night, I decided to work out my glamour muscles and core. I pirated “Insanity” off the Internet and started doing thousand of crunches and push-ups and—yikes—who am I kidding, to complete my night I decided to drink alone on the couch. I slunk down to the basement, self-loathing building with every step, and reached the Holy Land, my parents’ beer and wine collection. I looked through the options: Dogfish Head, Sam Adams, Blue Moon, fine wine, good rum. Finally I reached the decision to panic, run down to the liquor store at the bottom of the street and buy a bunch of Natty tallboys. On this night, I made an important discovery: drinking alone is fun until you pass six beers. After that, it’s the type of thing you need to exorcise by sneaking it into a humor article in a small liberal arts publication.
I woke up the next morning to the first couple of spring break pictures on my newsfeed and did what any sane person would have done. I printed them out and threw knives at them.* Honestly what’s the big deal with going to exotic places for spring break? Sure, you have sunlight, ocean and beautiful people, but I have a Netflix account and no impulse control whatsoever. Spring break…spring break…spring break forever.
Post knife-throwing session, I found myself back on Facebook, because, who are we kidding, what else was I gonna be doing. Now not only did I see spring break pictures, but statuses from fellow seniors lamenting the fact that [the remainder of this sentence has been redacted by the editors in an attempt to salvage the mental health of the class of 2014]. After reading a couple of these statuses, I thought of a get-rich-quick scheme. What if I became sort of like a contract killer, but instead of murder I specialized in silencing those who decided to remind us on social media and in real life that in a few months we will [all be paid handsomely to stay at Vassar]?
Imagine you are about to talk to your friend about the event that shall not be named and you feel a finger on your lip. Before you can react, you hear a gentle “Shush” and with a twirl of the cape, this vigilante, who is definitely not me, disappears into the night. I think we can all agree that that would not be terrifying and/or creepy.
On the second night of loneliness, I debated going to the mall and asking some middle school hooligans if they’d include me in their mall-rat activities (bouncy balls in the elevator, hide and go seek at Macy’s, all the good stuff) but then I saw my week-old moustache in the mirror and realized that idea was probably a no-go.
There are three more days of solitude to chronicle, but I think you all get the idea by now. Being alone sucks. Co-dependency is the next step in evolution.
*No Facebook friends were harmed in Eliot’s makeshift voodoo ceremony.