Street is mad. Street is very mad. Street was denied press passes for the SPEC Spring Fling concert and THEN Street found out that Penn was flipping everything we know and love about Fling upside down with its rules and threats and undercover officers who may or may not be hot girls with fake PennCards.
But then Street (I) walked to the art museum along the Schuylkill River Trail and the sun was shining and people were rollerblading and it was just so frickin’ hard to be anything but effervescently happy.
Most of my spring break was spent in a bubble bath with three of my best friends. Upon arriving in Montreal, where the drinking age is 19 and the dollar is strong, we were probably most excited to discover that our hotel room included a large Jacuzzi tub.
In part two of my tween–obsession saga (for those of you following along, yes, I’m still listening to One Direction), I have a crush on a group of teenage–boy Vine stars. Rereading that sentence made me gag a little.
Yesterday I went downtown to treat myself to a haircut and some much needed off–campus alone time. Seated comfortably in the safety of the rear¬–most station, I was ready to let my mind wander from the consuming topics of the Penn bubble.
Rather than use this space as a letter, I’m going to make you a list. If you remember from a few weeks ago (for the three people who read these beside my beloved Mom and Dad), organized girls love lists.
I had big plans for Fall Break. I wanted to go to Vegas. I had visions of flaunting my legality. I would sit at a slot machine, shmooze with Cher and sneak into the Real World suite at the Palms.
Then Yom Kippur happened.
With a last name like Goodman, I knew I couldn’t spend the holiest day of the year parading around with would–be Vegas showgirls.