October 20, 2014
Fall break has entered its third day and I’m not sure if I can last much longer. My stomach continues to gurgle and sputter like a faulty TA sink faucet. At night, it jolts me awake, and for a split second, I fear that a stranger is flushing the toilet! Sure, the sound is cool and all—in fact, I find myself trying to harmonize with it, which has done wonders for my singing abilities—but I’m pretty much over it at this point.
When Mother called this morning to ask how I’ve been doing, I held the receiver down near my abdomen and allowed her to converse with the disgruntled noises. I had hoped she would pick up on my cry for help and offer to pay for a Domino’s Stuffed Cheesy Bread or Bacio’s Nutella pizza (or even four garlic knots that I could undoubtedly turn into eight meals if I licked off all the garlic and ate the dough in separate instances).
After Mother gabbed with my hunger pangs for about twenty minutes, I placed the phone to my ear, expecting to hear some maternal sobs, dammit. Instead, she congratulated me on learning another language! And though she would have loved to stay and chat, she said she had a piping-hot pancake breakfast waiting for her on the table and nothing was worse than cold pancakes. Then she hung up.
Imagine my outrage, Journal! The unfairness of it all! I was the one who introduced her to pancake mix.
Well, what else could I do? Low on energy and with the lyrics of DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince’s “Parents Just Don’t Understand” clamoring through my headphones, I ambled over to the Deece. Perhaps an underclassman on campus would take pity on me, I thought. They might be lonely and in need of a friend, so of course, yes, no problem, they would feed me in exchange for my company. Isn’t that right, Journal? Isn’t that how the world works? Hasn’t the VSA taught us that we should all look out for one another, because we’re all Cappy’s children?
Wrong! You useless twit.
No one would make eye contact with me! I crawled up the steps to the entrance, thinking that if I brought out my Oscar-worthy acting skills and feigned death, maybe someone would saunter over to me with a Deece swipe in hand, like Superman in a greasy cape. But it seems that no one had a guest meal swipe to offer. Though I have a feeling they were all lying to me, choosing to save their five meagerguest swipes for family members, significant others or visiting friends. Can you imagine such selfishness, Journal?
Eventually, my friend Becky approached the building. I smiled at her as though I had just reached the Promised Land. But she quickly told me she ran out of guest meal swipes four days before break began.
“And I hate to say it,” she said, walking in slow motion toward the door, “but really I don’t see how this friendship is going to survive the rest of the semester. You aren’t in any of my classes, we’re not in the same orgs, you don’t even throw parties. Guess it’s time to move on.” She stopped just as she pulled the door open and echoed the last word as if she were a ghost. I mean, we stood there for ten minutes with her just saying it over and over again in lower volumes until it came out in barely a whisper. Then she floated away into the fluorescent lights of the Deece, like an angel on its way to Heaven.
I always knew Becky would betray me, Journal. Always.
Oh, and I know what you’re thinking. Don’t even start. I could have asked my housemate, right? Thing is, I did! Of course I did! But when I asked Dan if he could drive me to Stop-and-Shop before he set out on his week-long road trip to find the perfect organic kale salad in the Midwest, he turned to me, stared deep into my eyes, the windows to my whimpering soul, and said, “Nah, don’t feel like it. See ya.”
So it’s just me and you, Journal. And this grass I picked from the edge of Sunset Lake that I’ve been munching on for the last three hours. Ferry Housers call it foraging!I rinsed it, so I’m sure it’s clean. And if I close my eyes, it almost tastes like Brad’s Granola and raw onions. And if there’s anything I want at this exact moment from the Deece, it’s that damned granola and uncooked veggies. Come back to me.