There are only three states of being that you may inhabit as a college student. One: Oh god I hate everyone why do I go here. Two: Oh god everyone hates me what am I doing with my life. Three: Wait, I’m actually fine at the moment? (If you experience the lattermost regularly, I would like to put you in a jar and study you.)
Today I’m positive everyone hates me. This morning I batted my eyelashes at a cute guy on my way to class and he didn’t even smirk at me. Absolutely tragic. He should’ve seen my half-assed attempt at flirting through the furry hood covering half my face and my wind-chilled squinty eyes, and he definitely should’ve reciprocated. Strike one.
I think that’s my cue to melt into a puddle of embarrassment. I’ll make friends with the salty melted slush on the cold, hard ground so we can be bitter and hated together. (Frick.) In an attempt to pull myself together, I drag my feet to Starbucks, but the world holds no happiness for me today. A rising tide of angst is sweeping through the line, which curls all the way down to the first floor and back out Wilco’s front doors into the cold. I swear that a random first-year tries to trip me as I squeeze my way down the stairs. Strike two.
It’s at precisely 1:53 p.m. that I realize I haven’t eaten anything all day. As I stomp my way into my 2 p.m. class, I simmer in anger at the fact I will now be trapped in classes until 4:40 p.m. As of three weeks ago, the University and the arbiters of Daylight Savings Time have been conspiring against me to release me from academics only into the dark, cold Rochester nights (no sun for you, hee hee). My professor grins evilly as she tells me the exam is next week. My second professor seems almost gleeful to tell me that his final exam is indeed only 10 minutes after the previous one! I’m still starving and every dining hall is closed just to spite me. Strikes three, four, and five.
It’s been a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day. I hate everyone and everyone hates me. I crawl into bed at 8 p.m., face my pillow, and scream into the void. Hopefully I’ll be passed out before any roommates come back to witness the tragedy of my current existence.
I wake up the next morning feeling… well rested? This seems fake. I ignore the fact that I did absolutely no work last night and drag myself to go eat breakfast. (Wait, did that person I haven’t talked to in a month actually just smile and wave at me?) Lo and behold, I arrive at Grab and Go to find that they’ve saved the very last sausage, egg, and cheese bagel just for me. Marvelous.
Hmm. Today went suspiciously well. Could it be — gasp — that going to bed early and actually eating food — i.e., taking care of myself — is good for me? That perhaps… everyone doesn’t actually hate me? That it was just the seasonal depression talking all along?
Pshh. Nah. I’m sure today was a fluke. But maybe I’ll even go work out tonight. Just in case, ya know. I’m not one to tempt fate.