Walking out of VP on Saturday afternoon, I had five new Grindr messages. Booyah. Three messages were from an old “professional type” looking for a twinky college boy, and the others were from a steamy grad student in the School of Design.
“Don’t ever, ever call me again, you low–life scum, you trash!” I hang up with finality, promising that this is the last time I break up with my on–again, off–again “boyfriend”—at least, that’s what I think I’m supposed to call him.
Eat something for lunch other than a bagel from Mark’s/ No more sex in cabs/ Finally get with the boys on the Radian 14th floor/ Tell my thesis advisor what I really think of her/ Have sex in the bathroom of all four campus bars/ Stop farting in public/ Understand foreskin/ Stop hooking up with guys I can’t stand/ Stop pretending not to know people on Locust/ Be less bitchy to my mother/ Stop apologizing so much/ Use one weight machine at Pottruck without embarrassing and injuring myself (or others)/ Actually remember all the fun I have when I wake up the next morning/ Skinny dip in the Schuylkill/ Learn how to walk in heels/ Do something for someone else every day/ Know what is going on in the world beyond Penn/ Go to an Elmo naked party...naked this time/ Start working out during the mornings/ Stop walking from Starbucks to Van Pelt to Williams back to Starbucks looking for a place to study/ Stop walking around aimlessly in general/ Stop trying to run into that single person on Locust/ Cook more meals at home/ TEAR DOWN THE PATRIARCHY/Make THEOS irrelevant/ Ensure that the Wizard of Farts graduates so his power never sees Locust Walk again/ Stop only dating Jewish boys/ Stop hooking up with boys in the same lineage/ Stop reading CollegiateACB/ Get fucked in the ass more (or is that not highbrow enough?)/ Be fucking happy/ Have sex with a TA/ Learn that pizza isn’t a reliable friend/ Find someone to treat my tender boy pussy the right way/ Stop saying “You too” to the woman at Commons who tells me to have a good dinner/ Get gayer #nohetero/ Tell him my favorite part of the night is when he hugs me goodbye/ Get APES kicked off campus... oh wait/ Pee on Ben Franklin and not get arrested/ Take a full piss without hitting the rim or floor once/ NO MORE INSOMNIA COOKIES/ Wear my Greek letters more often/ Finally get with the boy I’ve liked since NSO freshman year/ Destroy more egos by not faking orgasms anymore/ Stop using people as social experiments/ Get head every time I give head/ Enjoy being able-bodied and young/ Read one book per week/ Eat more green things/ Don’t get ice cream after EVERY run/ Stop accidentally sending dick snapchats to my aunt/ Not pay for cheats on Candy Crush/ Cut down on my Tinder use/ Never set foot in Pike again/ Make out with a closeted frat guy at Smokes’/ Develop a consistent morning routine/ Have something that at least resembles a real relationship/ Smoke less pot and snort less cocaine/ Learn to not determine my self–worth in relation to other people/ Not accidentally make out with a 55-year-old again/ Give less fucks/ Floss.
“Mommy’s on the floor and she won’t get up.”
Normally, I’d be mad at my sister for interrupting my homework, but on an otherwise regular Wednesday night of my junior year of high school, I knew that her tear–stained cheeks and panicked words overrode the importance of my A.P.
Admittedly, I started on this train of thought while I was high. The eating–Doritos–in–bed–alone, binge–watching–"Family Guy"–on–Netflix type of high [ed note: is there another kind?]. The fact that a lot of my peer group (basically my entire peer group) smokes weed is not news.
This past summer, I was just one of a thousand eager Penn students interning in New York. Four trains—and an hour and a half of smelling body odor—later, I commuted to the Brooklyn–based office from my boring Jersey suburb to gain “experience” and seize “opportunity.” I learned the ropes of tri–state area public transportation, hustled through the corporate crowds of Wall Street and hopped across the East River to be among the hipsters of Park Slope.