By RainbewLatte
They say that the first day of college is the most exciting day, and I couldn’t agree more, as I did slow dancing in the dark yesterday on my own to find my classes for today (making sure I knew where my classes were so I wouldn’t fuck up leaving that amazing first impression, if you know what I mean). I even set an alarm! And for those who know me, I never set an alarm. I am the alarm.
(Smiles.)
Anyway, class was at 9:15. I woke up at approximately eight before brushing my teeth, laying a choice of clothes on my bed, washing my face, and then changing before eating a banana on my way out the door. I even ordered breakfast! More on that in a bit.
I felt like since it was the first day, it should be the day I established a routine for myself as I made my way towards class, feeling like I should eat a decent breakfast. In fact, what actually crossed my mind was whether or not to go to Safeway and buy a box of granola bars (which I did later that afternoon) before coming to the realization that Safeway is a lot farther than one might think. Hell, Finn (where I live and dorm) was a lot farther than I wanted to think. But, sure enough, my legs felt it, so I thought it through, and looking at the time on my oversized G-Shock watch (which is always ahead), I thought, This isn’t going to work, so I just decided, OK, heck, I’m just going to go eat the overpriced food at our school’s dining hall (Benson) at the only place that’s open in the dang morning before class called Mission Bakery. It later became public enemy #1. A wait time of 10 minutes on the app guaranteed a minimum wait of half an hour in a world where students were scurrying to class while also trying to catch their daily shot of caffeine; it just wasn’t going to do. Yet, we ordered away anyway, crowding the pickup counter where we’d scan our QR code upon notification that our order was ready like some zombie apocalypse hoard from World War Z. Withdrawing my phone from my pocket and pulling up the app I had only learned about the day prior, I ordered a croissant—a butter croissant—that had an estimated wait time of two minutes. It was enough to suffice.
I probably wouldn’t be too hungry after eating it, and hopefully my stomach wasn’t going to be the one to growl on the first day of class during my first lecture.
I mean, heck, it’s chemistry. I needed a lot of energy. It’s far from my strong suit.
I entered Benson, not joining the apocalypse, before finding an empty table and sitting down, where I waited for about 15-20 minutes, or perhaps 30 or more. I just know I waited a hell of a long time, and that class started soon, and I’d be forced to ditch. Thankfully, it was just across two walkways and some grass. It wasn’t far. Kenna Hall.
Not eating sucked, but the time in class passed rather quickly (perhaps because it was my first day), so I was fine. Apparently, water for breakfast is enough in college.
I headed into class, and I think it was about 40 minutes into class when my phone buzzed. I had considered powering off my phone, but due to how reliant on phones this school is (my ACCESS card is on my phone and my photo ID or student ID are also on my phone), I thought why bother. My initial thoughts about this buzz could have been many things, though I wasn’t going to be permanently distracted. It might’ve been a friend with whom I forgot to share my schedule or something else. “Don’t forget to water your succulent,” something I just called “plant” before changing its name from BigLeaf Smalls to BingBing. Praise the Lord, its actual name is a mouthful: Anacampseros telephiastrum variegata.
Just why.
Never once did the thought cross my mind that it was a notification to tell me that my order was ready—my butter croissant—in the middle of class.
Expected. Over an hour late. So after class, I’m walking out the door and down the stairs (class is on the 2nd floor) thinking to myself, Okay, cool, my food is ready. I’m just going to quickly pick it up and figure out what I want to do from there. I was going to go in, scan my QR code to say that I picked up my order, and head out. Understand that each and every order is labeled with a summary of the order, a student name, and an email. No one else could possibly be JLin13, and I doubt anyone was dying for my butter croissant that was once warm but is now better off not being reheated.
But, as all stories related to the first day of school go, I walked to the pick-up counter at Mission Bakery, where the QR scanner was, and the zombie apocalypse, the mob, still roamed (now smaller despite nearing lunch time), but my food wasn’t there.
Still.
Except that I had been notified.
I had my doubts about someone “accidentally” taking my food despite having my name written all over it, but life happens, so I didn’t want to be too big of an ass given I had enough proof to show them that my overpriced croissant hadn’t been picked up by me (at least) because I never scanned the code. But given the mob was still mobbing and I wasn’t in dire straits to get to my next class, I settled down and started working on newly assigned homework for another 20 minutes or so before finally confronting them.
The mob never chilled.
Packing my stuff, I made my way to the pickup counter, where the lady who, in future stories, would spell my name “Jhoothan” (later that day) would ask how I could be helped while staring at the screen, just no eye contact, which is fine; I mean, they were fighting the zombie apocalypse that didn’t want brains and were rather deadwired to their phones. She told me, “Oh my God, speak up; your voice is—"
She said something. I can’t exactly remember what she said. Anyway, I speak up, show her my QR code, recite my order consisting of one item compared to another’s three, and explain how I was notified, only for her to tell me, “We’re actually out of butter croissants. Sorry, but we can replace it with something else.” And I’m like, “Okay, cool, that’ll do.” Expecting that I’m allowed to replace it with just about any one item (I mean, as a bakery, they didn’t sell much either; I wasn’t going to get some wagyu slider), she starts listing off the most boring items on the menu, which I believe were mostly cheaper than the butter croissant, probably because of the “butter,” and it reminded me of the days I spent working at an amusement park in foods where everything was on the menu when half of them were not available or sold out. Either way, I got some cinnamon thing I don’t know the name of, I just pointed, before heading back to my dorm to do work (it was relatively okay in terms of taste; I can see why the croissant sold out, but this didn’t) before unpackaging my binder-able textbooks only to realize that the binders I had packed and brought were too small and that I needed to buy another, maybe three, before heading out my dorm once more right back towards Benson and Mission Bakery to go to the bookstore to buy some SCU priced binders, and it was then and there that I told myself, I’m going to write a daily grudge.
By RainbewLatte
My friend Katharine had told me that she was having ramen for lunch (she often tells me to eat, forcing me to listen to the tragic music of the dining hall, Benson), and at first I was internally fuming because, despite my dislike for noodles (rice all the way), the most Asian dishes here on campus are given the title of “Asian-inspired,” so they’re not exactly Asian. Whether that be “Asian-inspired Chicken Lettuce Cup” or even “Asian-inspired fried chicken bites” (clearly a nudge at Korean fried chicken, the other KFC), nothing was pure except for burgers and pizza; everything else appeared to be bred—purebred. In fact, they had attempted orange chicken just yesterday, which I had sent a photo of to Katharine, only for her to respond, "Fine, we can go to Panda,” given her blatant dislike, with one too many crying emojis because only she was crying.
Other than a razor cut and a bleeding thumb, I was doing great.
So all of that is to say, I was ecstatic (despite having a very sore freshly vaccinated arm and a bleeding finger from yesterday’s mishaps) to see Korean bibimbap on the menu and not some “Asian-inspired bibimbap” for lunch. I was delighted, and pleasantly so. It was at Chef's Table, a place for which I had never ordered before (I typically go to Fresh Bytes in SCIDI Hall, where labs are; they sell boba tea). But like most of the food at SCU, it was in Benson, which is (as I’ve mentioned in a previous tale) home to Mission Bakery. That place has caused me plenty of havoc since, and I really don’t know how they keep it up, but I suppose caffeine is a drug.
I had placed my order while still in my dorm, where it gave me an estimated wait time of 12 minutes, but I knew I was just going to wait until it told me that the order was ready and not believe in the 12 minutes. But 12 minutes would be 12:52, which the app does write, what they called an “aim time.”
Poster Invasion (the green alien) was back for the third straight day of selling posters; the sun was shining and all was going great. But nearing 1:30 (way past 12:52), I got so tired of staring at an “Almost Ready” update on my food that I stood up, scanned the surrounding area to see where Chef’s Table was, and made my way over, completely neglecting my bag, laptop, and all my stuff except my phone, for which I needed the QR. I suppose there’s an order, a similarity in these pieces, the lack of giving a shit, but as I made my way over, there was no line, nothing, except clear components to the bibimbap and a couple of conversing chefs. They were having a great time, and I waited a few moments, phone in hand, before one of them approached. “Chef’s Table?”
We were right beneath the sign.
I replied “Bibimbap,” fearing the pronunciation I had learned from my mother (given her obsession with all things Korean) wouldn’t suffice and I’d have to point at my phone screen, likely displaying my NewJeans PowerPuff Girl wallpaper at the word “Bibimbap that’s not Asian-inspired” for him to understand.
But I think the conversation was shared in silence.
He understood. “What's your pickup time?"
“12:52,” I said.
“12:52?” he replied with a hearty laugh.
It was past 1:30.
Yeah…
“Just scan your code.”
I made my way over to the scanner, where the register was, only to be greeted by another guy, the cashier, tinkering away at the screen, who stated with a harsh accent on his words, “Show me the code!"
I guess I was late, but then again, they never told me my order was ready, but regardless, I pulled up the code and presented it. “Here.”
He gave me a quick, unsympathetic nod before turning to the jolly chef who was previously helping me. “I removed his code.”
I made my way back to the pickup area as he scooped the contents into the bowl one by one, filling the bowl one layer at a time, shifting towards a section with six or so toppings before asking what I wanted. I simply gave it a quick glance before saying, “All."
He looked up, flashing me a quick smile before really digging in, parting slices of carrot, daikon, kimchi, and others before finally topping it off with an egg. “Take a picture,” he said with the most energetic tone of voice I heard all day, and it was at that moment that my perception of college food changed.
Despite waiting an eternity for my food, all I could do was smile, and those very words made my day.
By RainbewLatte
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Why not celebrate Saturday, the 14th? In October!
I almost chuckled as I sat down before my laptop, having just grinded out my math homework due Sunday. I mean, who does that kind of thing? Sunday? (Oh, right, it’s college.) I debated whether I wanted to take a shower first before coming back to this piece or the clear opposite, which was to write this piece and then shower. Really settling down to write this now, I’d like to admit that that was a 6 a.m. version of me, which is a far more energized version of me than whatever a guy sitting at a laptop at 5 p.m. attempts to be. Saturday is the one day I consider my weekend (if the math homework story wasn’t proof enough) in my 7-day week. It is also the day I typically “hit” the gym. I had taken a shower after writing about two paragraphs of this piece (most of which is now deleted) before putting on an oversized long-sleeve t-shirt, grabbing two tide pods, and going to the laundry room to wash my clothes.
Life lesson to all the college students: go do laundry early on Saturdays because you just might get lucky. As for me, my laundry was free! In fact, when I got to the laundry room lugging my massive Santa sack filled with lots of sweat-soaked clothes because heat is a real thing and I do tend to sweat (sorry for those expecting toys and Christmas joys, not today), the lights weren’t even on, and it was only a slight struggle to find the light switch. I did not want the door to just slam shut on me. Getting locked in a dark laundry room on a Saturday morning, knowing most students are probably still sleeping at 6-7 a.m., sounds like a nightmare. But thankfully, I found the switch, a sentiment I wish I could’ve shared with the time I went to an escape room with my mom and sister—this finding of a switch—as we pressed against a wooden door trying to find what was less of a switch, but more so a button that either had the word “push” or “press” written across it.
They had to make it obvious. I’m sure we made the button cry after spamming the hint button on such a seemingly simple task, but as challenging as the later stages of the room were, pressing a button just slightly above the door was the thing that really ate away at our escape time. But anyway, I found the light switch in the laundry room.
And sure enough, there was no one.
Great.
I made my way towards the control panel (there’s this scanner at the far end of the laundry room that we have to pay on to access a washing or drying machine) only to notice that under the washing machine section (represented by a blue square labeled “washing machine"), washing machine #4 was in use with 0 minutes left, which either meant the system was going all funky again (which it has done time and time again before) or someone was getting free laundry.
Me.
But also, as made apparent by a friend, if you’re paying a total of $3 a week for one load of laundry ($1.50 for washing and $1.50 for drying), it’s not actually “free.” You’re just recuperating some of the overpaid expenses.
I am not fluent with any of the economic terms, but it sure felt good, especially after a painstaking Friday the 13th in October, which I was actually excited for as a horror fan and guy who attempts to write horror despite not wanting any association with a horror or slasher film. However, unlike my friend at UCSD, my school didn’t even screen the film, which, as much as a horror/slasher film might not be the way to go after the real midterms week, it felt like a missed opportunity.
By all means, it’s October.
That said, I didn’t even bother clicking washing machine #4 on the panel because it was “occupied” before dumping or gently lowering my clothes into the washing machine. (I would like my mom to know that I am not “dumping” the very fine set of clothes she bought me for college into any ordinary college washing machine; rather, I am lowering them into the washing machine as if they were made of silk, only to watch them get tumbled in uncoordinated circles moments later and tumbled more in the dryer right after to dry.)
I appreciate them dearly and am thankful they haven’t shrunk. Yet.
I didn’t actually believe the washing machine would start washing my clothes upon shutting the door and pressing start, given I didn’t actually pay, but it did, which was great.
Funny enough, life truly has a hidden balance. Having had, or experienced, this moment of luck, gratitude, delight, or some other feeling I can’t describe, the door that’s always broken leading back into my dorm was broken again, except instead of checking my student ID, this time the front desk had me walking to the complete other side of the dorm. Use the back door.
I can only say my luck with doors has been a blessing. But, as stories like these often go, the back door to the dorm opened, and I made my way up to the 4th floor just fine. But to draw it back into what drew me to write this piece, it was upon finding out that one of my dorm mates had gotten sick that I really started to think back to yesterday and the day prior for moments after I finished my final midterm for neuroscience I started to feel extremely sick and my body was overheating like crazy which definitely carried over into yesterday, the blessed 13th, as I did the one thing I knew how to do which was to take Advil and hope that I wasn’t the only student participating as I usually am, which is to say I hoped there was going to be someone to answer the professor’s questions other than me so I didn’t have to talk (which didn’t happen) or that my classes or lectures would simply fly by, which also didn’t happen.
I just involuntarily get called on a lot.
Perhaps Jonathan’s too common a name, too attractive a name to call, or it came with a hidden curse. Either way, I’m very thankful to be feeling better as I live out my Friday the 13th in October on Saturday the 14th, which kind of started out as a joke no one was really following. Someone even told me to change my name permanently to Jhoothan, but I spent most of my day reading a horror novel called Ring by none other than Koji Suzuki, and gosh, it’s great. I won’t be the type to say he’s the Japanese Stephen King; I’d rather not make such comparisons, but I’ve fallen in love with the work in the process of reading it, and funny enough, it references Friday the 13th as well. That said, I can’t help but be reminded of the time, just 4 weeks ago, given I’m meeting with my parents again tomorrow as they requested either lunch or dinner with me, which I “happily obliged,” in which I sat in my father’s car, just across the street from my dorm, as I read Butter Croissant, which was a piece I had written about my first day of college, and with my father, not the biggest supporter of my writing (especially the horror ones), to see the glimmer in his eyes as he laid back, sinking into his seat, only to say smiling, “It isn’t scary,” and all I could do was laugh.
By RainbewLatte
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Why not celebrate Saturday, the 14th? In October!
I almost chuckled as I sat down before my laptop, having just grinded out my math homework due Sunday. I mean, who does that kind of thing? Sunday? (Oh, right, it’s college.) I debated whether I wanted to take a shower first before coming back to this piece or the clear opposite, which was to write this piece and then shower. Really settling down to write this now, I’d like to admit that that was a 6 a.m. version of me, which is a far more energized version of me than whatever a guy sitting at a laptop at 5 p.m. attempts to be. Saturday is the one day I consider my weekend (if the math homework story wasn’t proof enough) in my 7-day week. It is also the day I typically “hit” the gym. I had taken a shower after writing about two paragraphs of this piece (most of which is now deleted) before putting on an oversized long-sleeve t-shirt, grabbing two tide pods, and going to the laundry room to wash my clothes.
Life lesson to all the college students: go do laundry early on Saturdays because you just might get lucky. As for me, my laundry was free! In fact, when I got to the laundry room lugging my massive Santa sack filled with lots of sweat-soaked clothes because heat is a real thing and I do tend to sweat (sorry for those expecting toys and Christmas joys, not today), the lights weren’t even on, and it was only a slight struggle to find the light switch. I did not want the door to just slam shut on me. Getting locked in a dark laundry room on a Saturday morning, knowing most students are probably still sleeping at 6-7 a.m., sounds like a nightmare. But thankfully, I found the switch, a sentiment I wish I could’ve shared with the time I went to an escape room with my mom and sister—this finding of a switch—as we pressed against a wooden door trying to find what was less of a switch, but more so a button that either had the word “push” or “press” written across it.
They had to make it obvious. I’m sure we made the button cry after spamming the hint button on such a seemingly simple task, but as challenging as the later stages of the room were, pressing a button just slightly above the door was the thing that really ate away at our escape time. But anyway, I found the light switch in the laundry room.
And sure enough, there was no one.
Great.
I made my way towards the control panel (there’s this scanner at the far end of the laundry room that we have to pay on to access a washing or drying machine) only to notice that under the washing machine section (represented by a blue square labeled “washing machine"), washing machine #4 was in use with 0 minutes left, which either meant the system was going all funky again (which it has done time and time again before) or someone was getting free laundry.
Me.
But also, as made apparent by a friend, if you’re paying a total of $3 a week for one load of laundry ($1.50 for washing and $1.50 for drying), it’s not actually “free.” You’re just recuperating some of the overpaid expenses.
I am not fluent with any of the economic terms, but it sure felt good, especially after a painstaking Friday the 13th in October, which I was actually excited for as a horror fan and guy who attempts to write horror despite not wanting any association with a horror or slasher film. However, unlike my friend at UCSD, my school didn’t even screen the film, which, as much as a horror/slasher film might not be the way to go after the real midterms week, it felt like a missed opportunity.
By all means, it’s October.
That said, I didn’t even bother clicking washing machine #4 on the panel because it was “occupied” before dumping or gently lowering my clothes into the washing machine. (I would like my mom to know that I am not “dumping” the very fine set of clothes she bought me for college into any ordinary college washing machine; rather, I am lowering them into the washing machine as if they were made of silk, only to watch them get tumbled in uncoordinated circles moments later and tumbled more in the dryer right after to dry.)
I appreciate them dearly and am thankful they haven’t shrunk. Yet.
I didn’t actually believe the washing machine would start washing my clothes upon shutting the door and pressing start, given I didn’t actually pay, but it did, which was great.
Funny enough, life truly has a hidden balance. Having had, or experienced, this moment of luck, gratitude, delight, or some other feeling I can’t describe, the door that’s always broken leading back into my dorm was broken again, except instead of checking my student ID, this time the front desk had me walking to the complete other side of the dorm. Use the back door.
I can only say my luck with doors has been a blessing. But, as stories like these often go, the back door to the dorm opened, and I made my way up to the 4th floor just fine. But to draw it back into what drew me to write this piece, it was upon finding out that one of my dorm mates had gotten sick that I really started to think back to yesterday and the day prior for moments after I finished my final midterm for neuroscience I started to feel extremely sick and my body was overheating like crazy which definitely carried over into yesterday, the blessed 13th, as I did the one thing I knew how to do which was to take Advil and hope that I wasn’t the only student participating as I usually am, which is to say I hoped there was going to be someone to answer the professor’s questions other than me so I didn’t have to talk (which didn’t happen) or that my classes or lectures would simply fly by, which also didn’t happen.
I just involuntarily get called on a lot.
Perhaps Jonathan’s too common a name, too attractive a name to call, or it came with a hidden curse. Either way, I’m very thankful to be feeling better as I live out my Friday the 13th in October on Saturday the 14th, which kind of started out as a joke no one was really following. Someone even told me to change my name permanently to Jhoothan, but I spent most of my day reading a horror novel called Ring by none other than Koji Suzuki, and gosh, it’s great. I won’t be the type to say he’s the Japanese Stephen King; I’d rather not make such comparisons, but I’ve fallen in love with the work in the process of reading it, and funny enough, it references Friday the 13th as well. That said, I can’t help but be reminded of the time, just 4 weeks ago, given I’m meeting with my parents again tomorrow as they requested either lunch or dinner with me, which I “happily obliged,” in which I sat in my father’s car, just across the street from my dorm, as I read Butter Croissant, which was a piece I had written about my first day of college, and with my father, not the biggest supporter of my writing (especially the horror ones), to see the glimmer in his eyes as he laid back, sinking into his seat, only to say smiling, “It isn’t scary,” and all I could do was laugh.
(October 14th, 2023)
By RainbewLatte
I am currently sitting here gnawing away at a slice of what appears to be a chalky substance they call marble bread, or what the man at the counter had told me to be “a slice of marble” from a random box of mischief they were packing (I suppose they were closing; it’s 5 p.m.), which I suppose sounds (or sounded) quite grand with how it was phrased.
A slice of marble.
I had, once again, ordered a butter croissant.
Growing up, I felt it was quite apparent to my mother that I was one to never give up, especially on the seemingly most pointless things, such as ordering something over and over and just squandering this money I have to use, so I guess it’s not squandering, but I’m definitely still squandering it just to spite them. And by them, I mean the SCU food system. But I guess I also have them to thank for expanding my palate, as it is because I’ve been unable to receive the food I’ve ordered and am constantly having the contents of my orders replaced with other things that I have this newfound understanding of food. I’ve now had food that sears my insides—a lettuce wrap that wasn’t fulfilling, among various other things. Basically, I’ve indirectly ordered the things I’ve never expected to order, and I’ve come to understand why they’re the things that don’t get ordered in the first place.
And I think they’ve realized that. Partially. They added Thai tea to the menu, which isn’t bad. “Surprise. Surprise.” To that extent, I guess you can’t be greedy. Mission Bakery wait times are definitely improving, but as a commoner at Benson, the school’s dining hall, I’ve also noticed a decrease in orders, but that hasn’t prevented my food from needing to be replaced.
But, in celebration of my one success, despite today’s lack of it, I was able to finally try SCU’s notorious butter croissant on my way to meeting with my chemistry professor yesterday. And gosh, it was mediocre at best.
But as they say, mediocrity is okay! My chemistry professor even told me so as we chatted about combustion equations and molecular models before the conversation strayed, as most conversations I seem to be involved with do. We started joking about Benson food, which is a student’s bane, mine included, before delighting in the price of Taco Bell as I checked the time, making sure I wasn’t overstepping the bounds of office hours, only for her to tell me, “I just need to go home to eat. No worries,” not knowing that internally I wished that was me.
| Author Notes |
Benson is my college's dining hall (SCU).
Our food/dining system works as a mobile app we order from, and kid you not, the things that are out of stock are never marked as "out of stock," and given that it is an app, I suppose they could just remove the item entirely, but they don't, and for that reason, I get something to stress about daily, which is food, which in actuality, in college, should be the one thing I'm not stressing about. For those curious, SCU runs on a quarter system. It is very fast. They weren't kidding. |
By RainbewLatte
I had just finished reading the first chapter or “notebook” of Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human, which, for a Saturday morning, was quite the grind. I really can’t see anyone waking up and tumbling out of bed after a sleepless night (or even a sleep-full night), despite leading into a Saturday to read such a thing. However, being one of the few books on my “to-read” list other than all that comes after Koji Suzuki’s Ring, Junji Ito’s adaptation of Frankenstein, or Huxley, I did.
Funny enough, that, along with a prologue and translator’s note, made up approximately 20% of the book. It’s one of those things.
I sat at my desk, turning on my table lamp, which also conveniently charges my phone, before sighing and making that pouty face I typically make on mornings before gazing out my window at Safeway. Finished with my morning read, I grabbed the random portion of the receipt Barnes & Noble always gives me (or the only portion I seem to keep) before tucking it back into the book. Buy 1 Fresh Baked Cookie Get 50% OFF a 2nd Cookie. Mix or Match any flavor!!!
I always felt like it carried too much energy or “pizzazz” for someone like me, but watching my dorm mate tumble as he always does, causing the frame of the bed to clatter, I picked up my phone with the intention of texting my friend good morning, as I always do, with the internal fear that social media would do the one thing it does best, which is make me do anything but that and instead have me spending half an hour watching reels.
I feel there is and forever will be something so near and dear about sharing a heartfelt good morning. Engaging in such acts has just become such a part of me. But upon opening Instagram, still suffering the aftereffects of starting my day with No Longer Human rather than some delightful poetry or Ross Gay, given that No Longer Human literally begins with the words, “Mine has been a life of much shame,” I came to realize I had a message delivered to me, 21 minutes ago to be exact, from my sister.
She had sent a reel.
Now, with the immeasurable love I have towards my sister, given that I have her messages silenced as all she does is send me reels, I suppose returning the favor for the reels I send, I strayed from my intended path, doing everything in my power to not fall down the rabbit hole, and opened our chat with the intention of only watching that one reel.
I was still going to send my friend a good morning.
But after.
I clicked and opened the video, only to be greeted by a compilation of really random videos laying over one consistent semi-robotic audio.
In short summation, it told the story about two whales, one male and one female, and this whaling ship that had harpooned the male whale’s father many years ago. Basically, the male whale was seeking revenge and wanted, with the help of the female whale, to sink the ship. Let’s both swim under the ship and blow out of our air holes at the exact same time, and it should cause the ship to turn over and sink.
Up until this point, I was convinced. They blow out of their air holes; the ship turns over and sinks, but apparently the seaman (oh, I feel like I’m giving this away) had jumped ship and were now swimming to safety. Internally, I was fearing for the worst, given that those who know me know that I love horror (but not on mornings), and this certainly made its case. The voice was kind of creepy, more like overly sarcastic, but what I was fearing wasn’t what I’d likely witness at the turn of this story, but rather how darn long this reel just might be. The sun was beginning to shine.
I think substantially longer videos can be posted now; they just lengthen the period of time one spends on social media, but it wasn’t long before the video concluded.
They were going to go after the seamen and gobble them up.
At least that was what the male whale was proposing, which the female whale declined.
I’ve come to realize a massive fault in this retelling of an experience, as I wasn’t thinking of the things I am currently thinking about when I was watching the reel for the first time. There’s something about having a dirty mind or tapping into that side of human nature knowing it’s there that people often seem to find funny; oh, he got exposed, knowing well they’re not any more innocent.
But there was more of a weaving of dirty-minded skills in this story. I almost wondered what else those words could mean.
“Look. I went along with the blowjob, but I absolutely refuse to swallow the seamen."
Those were the female whale’s words, and for the first time in a long while, I was finally able to gauge where my sister’s humor had gone.
| Author Notes | Being a dorm-ing college student, it is almost as if these reels are the means of communication with a sibling. It was delightful, but some of the things on social media are definitely questionable. It's so wild, unexpected, hilarious, and calculated that it's almost as if it takes on an innocence of its own. |
By RainbewLatte
Two weeks ago (actually two weeks plus one day ago), I wrote a piece titled Saturday the 14th! (In October!), which, with the support of a few, was submitted to a Halloween writing contest even though the piece was not written with a competition in mind. Just, there was a nonfiction category, and in the process of a few discussions and a number of revisions, I, along with those I was discussing this piece with, really wondered what nonfiction story one could tell about Halloween, so I decided to submit this very raw piece that was a new way of looking at Friday the 13th (in October), which was very much about college washing machines.
I’m sure one can see the connection with Halloween. (I can’t.) But with the loving support of Katharine, who put up with all my whining despite my initial pleas for her edits (you’re killing what makes this piece delightful!) and Emily, my CF, with whom I read and shared the piece (accidentally leaving in the “Kath Edition” marking, which was made for self-reference), will, to my surprise, be published in two days because that’s Halloween.
For the sake of jokes, I should probably write “Terror Tuesday! (in October!)” to keep the tradition alive, even though I have nothing more to say about washing machines. To continue to abuse Katharine’s name, it will likely be about folding clothes, which I almost swore I’d never write about. Folding clothes on a Tuesday!
But seriously, I’m sure I’m going to be asked, “What happened to writing about food?”
Even though I’m absolutely terrible at it, well, this one’s for you.
The Santa Clara Review, a publication I am definitely not getting published in, held a writing workshop five days before the contest deadline in which students and whoever else wanted to go could go in and “workshop” their pieces. It was actually more like go in, sit down, and write, which, if you ask me, was absolutely miserable. Like, no one went. In fact, not only was I the only freshman, I was also the only guy. Worse yet, I was surrounded by a bunch of editors, which, as a writer with no name, was kind of daunting. The light also kept flickering on and off, which, despite being a preferable atmosphere for those who were actually writing horror and Halloween stories, I was busy debating whether or not I wanted to submit a piece about a washing machine.
Let’s get that straight.
Anyway, the event went smoothly, and I ended up working on a piece titled Annalise Erling because if there was any piece I wanted to submit under fiction, it’d be that, which, fast forward, I never finished in time. I ended up submitting a piece titled Food Stall, which I swear only my dad finds horrifying (oh, how I love food), which will also be featured in two days.
I’d like to say I got lucky.
Katharine will probably say otherwise, which, by her argument, is justified. I mean, with the amount of time she spent, or sacrificed, to look over my work, given that she too is suffering from the quarter system, luck is probably the wrong word, but I attribute 99.99 percent of my success to luck. As for Annalise Erling, maybe next time.
However, to bring it back to this “wonderful event” (which I genuinely appreciated!), I was told to read my half-finished piece, which was Annalise Erling, before the event promptly ended and everyone headed their separate ways, only for me to be the second-to-last to leave. And, for reasons unknown, the person I was left with was the editor in chief, Nikhita Panjnani, who offered me a heck ton of donuts.
“Help yourself! Take as many as you’d like,” she exclaimed.
I took three, which was more than plenty.
I made my way out, having plated my donuts, and offered my thanks. I made my way up the stairs only to be greeted by a group of girls that looked like they had come out of a cowboy-themed movie rather than a writing workshop, to which they asked me ever so kindly, “Where’d you get the donuts from?” as if to say, “Can I have one?”
And my response, being a terrible liar, was simply, “A writing workshop,” and their faces went blank as if to say, "I guess we’re not getting any nice-looking donuts today."
They let out an awkward chuckle and left.
After this encounter, I continued up the stairs, eyeing my donuts and admiring them (they were Scooby-Doo themed from Krispy Kreme) before deciding to make a call to my mom. “I went to a writing workshop!”
She was only somewhat amused, so I decided to tell her my donut story, and that caught her attention. “Send me pictures!” she said. “Just message me!”
But I didn’t expect what came next.
“And about the girls, you should’ve just given it to them like, ‘Here! You can just take these!’ They would’ve thought, ‘Oh my goodness, he’s so cool!’”
Okay, let me make this clear. If I need donuts to prove my coolness, I am not deserving of my father's (or mother’s) last name. I am far cooler than a Scooby-Doo donut, even though they were pretty damn cool. I mean, the Mystery Machine is sick! But the donuts were for me; I earned them, and I was going to eat them.
Except, that didn’t happen.
Upon returning to my dorm and setting my plate of donuts on my desk, I made my way out of my dorm since I was still on the call with my mom, only to return to an empty plate.
And sure enough, my dorm mates were feasting. Purple, blue, mystery machine, skull, and all I could think as they looked at me with guilty eyes (oh, they saw me walk in) was that I should’ve given them away. At the very least, there was the possibility that they’d think I was cool.
By RainbewLatte
I was heading to a building called SCIDI, which is a place I often go after chemistry class for lunch given their comfortable chairs, only to head in and notice the seat I often sat in was occupied.
But, understandably, I was a whole two hours late. I didn’t have chemistry class that day and was out and about meeting with advisors. What classes should I take? And will I die?
They were more willing to answer the first question, but that isn’t to say nobody answered the second one. And, by the time I had gotten to my usual seat, I wasn’t thinking about what any of them had said. On a project board displayed on a table right before me were the words, “Write a thank you card!” and before it lay a scattering of pens inscribed with the words “Gratitude month,” cards with the words “Thank You,” envelopes, as well as a few other things. And the only thought that filled my head was that I gotta write one! And, wow, there’s such a thing as gratitude month?
Well, it was actually more like I have an essay to finish! And are these even free to take? as there are far too many tables around this school stationed by students trying to sell stuff to me. And who carries cash? But with repeated advertisements, it became more than apparent that they were free to take, that they’d even deliver it for me if I wanted it delivered (per se to someone outside of this school’s bounds), and that I had half a billion people to thank.
Thank your parents, your professors, your friends, your lab TA—the list went on and on. And I was just overcome with this abundance of gratitude as I sifted through the cards simultaneously, asking, “Can I take one?” knowing that it was a stupid question to ask, to which they replied, “Yeah! Take as many as you’d like!"
Taking two, I semi-organized the cards in my hand before gently sticking two stickers, one on each envelope, which I was supposed to seal the envelope with that also had the words “thank you" written across it, before turning to find myself a seat. And as I turned, the lady sitting beside the board allowed two words to slip from her lips, which caused me to turn back once more.
“Thank you,” she said.
I stopped in acknowledgment only to realize the true importance and necessity of such a month. At that very moment, all thoughts and questions left my head. This is what they meant by a month of gratitude, and out of my mouth came the words, “No, thank you.”
By RainbewLatte
I, for all my upset and not-clear-headed reasons, decided to buy myself a brown sugar milk tea, which brought about a series of shocks. First, the pricing was insane, which, being a week 8 college student, should no longer surprise me, but it does. At this price point, I’m paying for premium milk tea, but I guess in that regard, such a requirement was met. It truly was premium. Upon getting the notification on my phone that my order was ready, I looked around at the pickup table packed with orders for a receipt with my name, not wanting to believe the thing half-filled with brown sugar was mine.
It truly was a brown sugar milk tea. I have never seen so much sugar in my life, and given I hadn’t eaten breakfast (I curse myself for picking a relatively early class even though I have even earlier classes next quarter), I thought, Oh, this is really going to kill me.
And, doing what any reasonable human would do, I grabbed a straw, stuck it to the bottom of the drink, and drank away at the sugar. As my uncle taught me with coffee, drink what’s at the bottom, drink what’s at the top, then mix.
Sour. Sweet. Coffee.
Now this experience has led me to a variety of places, as many drinks come mixed, making the top taste the same as the bottom, and many bottled drinks sold in stores tell you to shake it up before opening with the tiniest font, which I often forget to do.
It’s like, I’m on my last sip when I realize, Oh, I’m supposed to shake it!
All of that is to say, such a clear, visible separation of brown and white, top and bottom, is a rare experience for me, as I’m sure it is for many. But being attentive enough to notice such a clear separation and allowing myself the delight of this experience, given that I paid for it—a costly experience it is—I thanked those who were working before drinking from the top and mixing.
And to my displeasure, it tasted the same.
Sweet.
By RainbewLatte
There is nothing like finding yourself at your lowest of lows, where you’re walking sideways, your attention is waning in class, and everyone you run into slightly pisses you off, only to find a delightfully open seat in SCIDI, which is a building I often, if not routinely, go to after chemistry for lunch, and also because it’s far nicer than most buildings at this school, likely because it’s relatively new. I made my way over to the seat with my backpack on and laptop in hand only to realize that the seat was a lot lower than expected and had a slightly upward slant, which, upon sitting down, I couldn’t help but laugh.
I sort of fell into my seat.
And worse yet, the table was also far higher than I felt it needed to be; it had my arms raised higher than pit level, portraying me as grouchy, slouchy Frankenstein, but at least it was planar, and the seat sure was comforting.
By RainbewLatte
There is something so very special about those days when everything that seems to be going wrong suddenly takes an unseen course of action. I was doing laundry again, as I do every Saturday, only to head into the laundry room and notice (likely due to my lateness) that most laundry machines were in use, which was to be expected on a Saturday. This is why I disciplined myself to go early, but some days you’re just off. In fact, all but one laundry machine was in use (actually, two laundry machines weren’t in use, but the other one was broken, so I chose not to count it) only to realize that across the bar that’s supposed to tell you whether you’re supposed to pay, press start, or close the machine door displayed “Press Start” instead of “Pay.” That meant one of two things. Either someone had paid and completely ditched the laundry room for reasons unknown or the machine (or system) was going wack again, which, for all those who don’t know, has happened to me before.
And that only means one thing. Free laundry.
I made my way around the relatively small laundry room only to quickly realize that I was the only person in the entire room (and also the only person pacing back and forth in this laundry room), so I decided I might as well use the machine. I mean, I had no other options. My only other option was to wait, but I don’t see why I’d wait around just to pay for laundry. I’m sure the next person who walked in and noticed this "free load of laundry" would also take advantage of it, so why not me? That is, especially when the next person who was going to walk into the laundry room was likely going to be my roommate, who definitely doesn't need the free laundry.
I didn’t either, but this is the biggest load of clothes I’ve had in weeks.
Tossing in my Tide pod and making the selections I always do, I pressed "Start,” and sure enough, it started washing. With 30 minutes on the clock, I made my way out of the laundry room and back into my room, where I grabbed my Barnes & Noble tote bag, which I use for groceries, and made my way downstairs and across the street towards Safeway. With the yellow lights flashing as they always do and drivers still not giving a care about pedestrians—driving at an ever-constant speed and never stopping—I weaved through the aisles before settling in an aisle packed with sparkling water, given that the location in which I had purchased my sparkling water from last time had changed. But, thankfully, the deal remained: 3 packs of La Croix for $12.
Great.
I made my way over to the checkout line, but unlike last time, none of the self-checkout registers were occupied, so I scanned away, pretending I was a cashier for my three items, wishing myself a great rest of my day before making my way back across the street towards the side door, which, in last time’s telling, refused to open.
But, with prayerful words and a heart full of gratitude, I held my ACCESS card to the scanner, to which the scanner turned green as if to say, “I’ll open; just pull on me or use the disabled button; don’t push me like the idiot before you,” which is what I did, pulling on it, giving it a gentle but hefty tug, only for the door to refuse to open.
Again.
By RainbewLatte
There is nothing like the recent affinity I’ve made with Ritz Crackers, so greatly expressed by my constant munching on my way to class, just as I had done this morning on my way to chemistry, for which, being Wednesday, we had a quiz.
Having had a relatively long night (for other reasons than studying, such as this coughing sickness of mine) and having studied a fair amount, I allowed myself to fully engage in the experience of eating.
With a freshly opened stack of Ritz in hand, I was taken away as I savored every taste and every bite. I couldn’t see anything being more perfect for a morning. Finishing the entire stack less than a quarter of the way to class, I tossed the beige plastic wrapper into the nearest recycling bin before thinking, Oh, Ritz, you delight me.
Now, having opened my last box this morning (this shouldn’t be alarming; I had only purchased two boxes, and each box only carries 8 stacks; I eat like two stacks a day), I had an internal gnawing that my stash of Ritz was going to run dry. So, to quell the gnawing, I made a promise to myself that as long as I did well enough on my quiz and somehow managed to wrap up my lab report before noon (which seemed “very possible” at the time), I was going to head back to my dorm, drop off my stuff, grab a bag (as there was no way I was going to buy one), and go to Safeway.
Why? To buy Ritz.
The whole spark to my Ritz affinity came when I first encountered a deal I couldn’t dismiss as I was strolling the aisles, to which I encountered this big yellow sign that, in simple summation, stated that I could save a good $3.30 off every box of Ritz I bought as long as I bought a minimum of two boxes. You buy 3 boxes, you save $9, etc.
Simple enough.
Which, being $5.79 a box at MSRP, I could use the savings. And it was also one of the few times a Safeway deal didn’t feel like an “I’ll take a dollar off for you” deal.
$3 off, oh yes, please!
So, having gotten one question wrong on my chemistry quiz, pulling a 14/15 for not fully reading the instructions (one of the reactions was supposed to result in a “No Reaction"), and somehow managing to tidy up my lab report in our school’s dining hall as I ate lunch (which was only slightly filling), I made my way back to my dorm, did exactly what I promised myself, and headed off to Safeway.
It was to my recollection that I saw the sign still up over the weekend that I was convinced they still had the deal, which, sure enough, the sign was still there.
Member price and the oh so heavenly deal!
So, doing what any reasonable college student who has this awkward affinity for Ritz Crackers would do, I grabbed two boxes, knowing it was the minimum, glanced at the sign to make sure I wasn’t going crazy, and made my way over to the self-checkout. I scanned my two boxes of Ritz, typed in my phone number for rewards, and... the deal never came.
Well, I saved $2.60. Total. My total went from $11.58 to $8.98. I was expecting $6.60 in savings before tax (which, looking at my receipt, I wasn’t charged) and a subtotal of approximately $5.50, only to be paying $9. And, I kid you not, I stood there for the longest time, convinced something was wrong, which something was. Feeling bad for holding up the line as Safeway is apparently still kind of busy on a Wednesday, especially one just across from a college dorm (oh, how college students love Safeway), I let out a defeated sigh before paying.
$9 goodbye. I probably could’ve saved a good $3–4. But I wasn’t done. Grabbing my receipt and placing it on top of my two boxes of Ritz as a sign that I wasn’t stealing or wasn’t trying to steal, I went back to the big, bright yellow sign (it’s actually just printed paper) only to realize that the deal was available “Thru Tue. Nov. 14.”
That…was yesterday.
Taking a photo for self-recollection and smacking myself in the brain for my own stupidity (I had read the sign), I let out a grunt (for which the lady behind the cashier glanced at me) and left.
By RainbewLatte
Sometimes delights can be found in the simplest of things, such as a hearty laugh or a short but impactful exchange between friends. I was a recipient of such delights, but in a different form, as I made my way out of Benson, our school’s dining hall. I had just eaten their TJ-style grilled beef tacos for the first time from La Parilla, which in and of itself was a delight, before exiting through the large front doors only to be greeted by an abundance of faded but still decipherable chalk writing imbued with positivity. The words “YOU’VE GOT THIS” were surrounded by a whimsical display of diamonds so elegantly shaded before flowing into the words “Be Positive!” I followed its winding and scattered trails, curious about what the next one read. With chalk being something I have long associated with impermanence, this felt permanent to me.
By RainbewLatte
There is nothing like manga’s ability to bring people together in the oddest of ways, and I’m not talking about the classic conversations where a friend, classmate, or some other individual suddenly asks if you watch anime, or at the very least have seen Dragon Ball Z, One Piece, Bleach, or Naruto, before going on an entire spiel about how badass and amazing it is, whether that be the fight scenes, storytelling, or some other thing, and I understand that my references may have just aged me. Perhaps the age of anime and manga we live in now consists of Black Clover, My Hero Academia, Attack on Titan (as I still hear news), and many more. But, even with my declining participation, having fallen out of my heyday quite some time ago, that hasn’t prevented me from picking up an occasional read.
After attempting to participate in a three-day weekend that I didn’t have (given that Veterans Day for many, if not most people, comes with a day off), I took the chunk of time I had between classes (given that I’m a college student) to get some lunch and head to Barnes & Noble before coming back, fully aware that there’s a recycled bookstore far closer to my campus and dorm. In fact, the bus ride there isn’t long, and I did go there last week with a slight expectation that they’d have all eight volumes of Parasyte at a discounted, pre-owned, recycled bookstore price, but they didn’t have a single one.
It’s kind of funny how such moments lead you to tell yourself, I’m willing to buy it out of order. I just don’t want to pay full price knowing that I’m probably not going to start reading it until I get my hands on volume one.
At least that’s how I am for the most part. I don’t know what I would’ve done had they had Parasyte. But, after a week of waiting, which didn’t feel long with the amount of cramming and midterms I had (in fact, I wanted time to pass by a tad slower, likely allowing me more sleep), I went to Barnes & Noble, and sure enough, they had it.
Toning down the sense of surprise, I had actually Googled the location before going, so I knew they had it in stock, but what I didn’t expect was the number of people that were there, which warmed me, as I couldn’t imagine if Barnes & Noble closed. Plus, I’m a member. If this is what people do with their three-day weekend, I approve.
I made my way to the manga section in search of Parasyte (and not the Parasite that comes up every time I search “Parasyte” but slightly misspell it) to be delighted by the countless people crowding the shelves, especially the section I was most curious about under “P.”
For those who don’t know, they’re alphabetized by title, not author.
As for why this section was so popular, I could only assume that it was because with O comes One Punch Man and One Piece, and on the shelf perpendicular, there was Rent-A-Girlfriend, Spy x Family, Toilet-Bound Hanako-kun, and various other things I’m definitely missing.
Anyway, the thing I wanted was on the lowest part of the shelf beneath the all-too-grand One Piece that is still making waves, which was guarded by a bunch of legs. And, obviously, with a kind ask, they made way for me to sort through and delight in the few copies they had. I understand that I did, in fact, partially grow up watching Parasyte with my uncle, but to my recollection, I wasn’t as into it back then. In fact, I probably wasn’t into it at all. I mean, it’s kind of creepy. But I guess with time, people change, and now, years into the future, I’ve chosen to engage with such things so much that I’ve exercised patience just to be glad that one volume is still only $10.99 and not $15.
Well, the full-color edition (which I had no idea about before this event) was $20.
Not cheap. Nor is $10.99, but given a newly released volume of something that’s currently trending at $13 and arguably half the size, I’m fine with $10.99.
Treating myself to this three-day weekend (okay, fine, I only have a two-day weekend), I grabbed the first two volumes, which made up 25% of the series, before waiting in line to pay at the cashier, only to let my eyes wander towards the shelves of new releases.
That’s the thing I love about Barnes & Noble's lines. They’re both fast and slow, and my eyes always wander when I’m in them. I almost considered picking up two more books just by passing by the shelves of new releases. Except, they were basically $30 a piece. $80 subtotal on a Friday, I thought. No way.
I’m still a broke college student, but the uncomfortable visuals of Parasyte and the one-week wait made it worth the price. I’m going to be a shameless college student and say I worked hard. I know no one’s going to believe me, but I did. With a cashier open, I made my way over, kind of setting my two books (mangas) before the cashier, only for his eyes to light up, which is proof he works in a bookstore. “Is it your first time reading Parasyte?” he asked.
“Yeah…” I gave an unconvincing response as I sort of scratched my head. “I mean, sure, but not really. I think I’ve seen a bit of it before in the past.”
That information seemed unimportant.
“Well, the anime is good too. But yeah, the series is really good. Like really good.”
Great! I think those are the moments where I get really awkward, as I was already in the process of buying them, but with similar situations happening with One Piece, Akira, Devilman, and Hunter x Hunter, this definitely wasn’t the first time. Actually, the same thing happened with Rent-A-Girlfriend, back when I still cared to read it. I think the cashier told me I was the third or fourth person to buy it that day.
I’m ashamed.
But, to further the conversation, I said, “I’m a member.”
It was his turn to go, “Great,” except instead of asking for a phone number, I had already whipped out my glistening gold foiled “Barnes & Noble Premium Membership” card.
I will say the text on it is in all caps.
It seems excessive, but anything for my discount!
With a lighter wallet and a heavier bag, I made my way towards the exit, only for a sense of comfort to fill my heart. Even in a world of digital media, the tangible experience of a good old-fashioned manga haul was still an experience worth savoring. And awkward cashier encounters may very well be the true unsung heroes of the story.
By RainbewLatte
I feel there needs to be an emphasis on the little but also not-so-little things, such as receiving a call from my parents at around 9 p.m., maybe even a little after, for which the whole purpose of their call was to offer me cookies. They’d “bring them by."
Now, as a busy college student, I had shit to do (although grabbing cookies couldn’t hurt; it’d likely spike my sugar levels, if anything). But, as with many things, my peak laziness was also kicking in.
I wanted to go to sleep.
Even though I was likely going to pull it until 2 a.m. again, I wanted to sleep.
This was Thursday, November 9, which was also the day Emily, my CF, hosted an event (again), except this time it was just an Emily-hosted event with no tagalongs, and by that, I mean there were no other CFs involved compared to her cereal event last time, which had two other CFs just sitting there with nothing to do, but at least she was proud.
I think everyone can appreciate an Emily-hosted event (she’s always very calm and collected but also quite cheery, so thank you, Emily), especially when it involves “fake Legos" or “real bricks.” And for “real bricks,” they’re really quite nice, and props to her for deciding to make succulents.
“(Almost) Lego Succulents.”
Real brick succulents.
Anyway, the event was great and largely successful; photos were taken, social media posts were made, Emily and I each made two, and I was now answering phone calls from parents at 9 p.m. about cookies they bought (a whole box of them, mega sweet and even larger in person than in photographs), which they sort of regretted buying. It looked too good not to buy, but now they wanted me to find a way to share them and “deal them off.” Put up a “free cookies” sign. Or, go bug my suitemates about it, given they took my donuts without asking last time (reference: Scooby-Doo Donuts). It only seemed proper that I asked them, “Want a free cookie?”
But, despite my parents' initial offer and repeated pleas (loaded with low-budget verbal advertising), I initially declined.
I simply didn’t want to deal with a box of oversized cookies, and I was sure my sister would be more than happy to enjoy them at a later date—sometime down the line.
Without my help, they’d finish it. Somehow.
Again, I was tired, and I didn’t see why anyone would want a cookie from me at 10 p.m. But, with enough back-and-forth exchange (the call really wasn’t going to end, or the text messages; my parents probably just wanted to see me), I accepted.
I’ll be outside.
With how my suitemates obliterated my donuts last time (I mean, fine, take my donuts on my desk while I’m gone, but why do you have to take the one donut I was definitely going to eat?) I walked out of my dorm to meet my parents with the very hope that they’d do the same to these cookies, except I was going to ask if they wanted one this time (no more donut thievery), only to make my way back into my dorm with a box of cookies and a random hat my dad probably pulled out his butt pocket that read “ni” only for all but one of them to decline.
By RainbewLatte
There’s nothing like the warm, nonverbal exchange that occurs when it rains, as expressed by walking people—passersby. I watch as they move to and fro, bundled up in nice warm clothes, only to occasionally tilt their umbrellas towards me as if to “flex” their huge umbrellas, showing them off, to say hello.
Mine is twice as big as yours. I notice that you’re carrying a bag and hustling towards the bookstore, perhaps to return your rental books that are due tomorrow, fearing a fine. You probably received their warning email. Maybe we should exchange. Umbrellas, that is. I feel a sense of sympathy for your books, as they’re in no need of this rain. They’re made of waxy, smudgy paper, after all.
I watch as others walk and twirl their umbrellas, shaking off the raindrops and dispersing them everywhere as if to say, You get wet, and you get wet too. There’s an artistic grace and elegance to these actions; there’s a sense of youth that makes me smile as I’m forced to trail behind them, music buzzing into my ears, for I am the one carrying the bag with textbooks. Maybe you should walk faster, I think to myself. I have places to get to, and oh, how I despise—I mean, adore—this rain. My new shoes, which are white, are crying as if what fell from the sky wasn’t water but rather the ink from ballpoint pens, marinating my once-white shoes with muddy gray tones.
A short distance later, I bypass those before me by speeding up my pace, never once making eye contact with the individuals before me as I manage to make it to the SCU bookstore, the Bronco Corner, before closing time. Settling under the awning, I close my umbrella, watching as the rain softens, only to observe individuals who couldn’t care to bring an umbrella, couldn’t care to buy one, or didn’t see the need for one, some skateboarding despite this rain, strolling and laughing like me.
Even in variety, there’s unity.
By RainbewLatte
A spark of inspiration and a sense of joy came over me as I was cleaning this morning as I prepared to move out of the dorm I moved into just twelve weeks ago.
Looking back, eleven weeks of school seemed like a long time. However, it truly flew by. I had said the same thing about high school, which was preceded by middle school, which was preceded by all the schooling before that. And, I have a tendency to delve into the bittersweet thoughts and feelings I feel in moments like these, which is always interesting because I can bet my bottom dollar that in the moment the process felt anything but short. No more projects, please, I would think. Another exam? I watched as work just kept compounding, but as time went on, all those feelings coalesced into what I should probably call the final outing of quarter one of my first year of college, signified by events like the last lecture of a class I’ll never take again with a professor I might or might not see again or even the last dinner I had with friends. Given that the last dinner I had with friends this quarter was preceded by my last Neuro1 lecture, which was also the class in which I met these friends, it felt bittersweet to the point of being sentimental.
Truth be told, they’re upperclassmen, and this felt like nothing short of a rare crossing. With the often cold and independent nature of most lectures or classes—go in, take notes, and leave—it was through this class that I truly felt like I made friends.
And, being upperclassmen, just simply further along the timeline than I ever will be (they’re always going to be a step ahead), I don’t know when we’ll ever take classes together again.
Besides, no one really knows where the next quarter will lead or what it will bring. It’s mostly a mystery at the moment, which is probably why this experience feels quite different than that of middle or high school. Beyond the sense of “gained independence,” or what my parents call “a false sense of independence,” living not all that far from home and being overly reliant on Safeway for most of my needs, not only is this simply the end of a quarter and not a school year (which rattles you with the words “THERE’S MORE”), but all I’m really doing is going home.
Finn will still be Finn when I return—the lofty (but not loftiest) dorm that most if not all undergraduates are jealous of, as they probably selected it as their first pick upon dorm registration as well, and the atrocity that is my workspace will likely still look the way it does now. If anything, it’s battling with the truth that all things must end. There’s an end and a beginning to everything, and sometimes it’s the ending of something that inspires another, and sometimes it’s the act of ending that keeps you moving along. Some might even choose to bug me about such pesky things before I head out the door with one too many bags, locking it upon exit as was required of me (even though the door sort of automatically locks), before heading for the elevator.
Upon arriving on the first floor, I struggle with my bags (five of them plus my laptop) as I kick and nudge my way out of the elevator in hopes that the door doesn’t just close on me as it has done many times before, before stopping by the Pokémon wall one last time.
It was just some weeks ago that I referenced this very wall (which has all the CFs and FD Chan Thai displayed as Pokémon cards) when the front door of Finn broke for the first of many times this quarter. Except, unlike the various other times the door broke, they had left the front door open rather than telling us, dorm residents, to head to the back door, which is why the front desk had asked me for my student ID before questioning me, asking questions like, “What floor do you live on,” “Which wing,” and “Who’s your CF?”
I could somewhat confidently answer the first two questions, but the last one caught me off guard. I couldn’t confidently name who my CF was, which is why I immediately headed for the wall, only to make it blatantly clear to those working at the front desk that I was struggling. I knew who my CF was, but I couldn’t recall her name. Em…
I scanned the wall, trying to find someone who looked like Emily, only for the front desk to let me go a moment later.
“You’re good. It’s fine,” they said, sort of laughing at my demise. Apparently, my struggle was enough to convince them that I did, in fact, live in a dorm named Finn.
The front desk’s empty now. And on the counter is a sign that reads, "30-minute vacuum rentals are available. Be back at 5 p.m.”
It’s only a little past 3.
Looking back, I almost don’t understand how I couldn’t recognize that that was Emily—the electric-type Pokémon with the special ability to “zone out.” With all the momentous memories we’ve shared, I can confidently say that it sounds like the sort of thing she’d write.
And sadly, I’m unable to wish her goodbye.
Apparently, exams on a Friday afternoon are a thing, even though it’s move-out day.
So goodbye, Emily.
Picking up my bags as I trudge out the door, I glance back at the dorm in its entirety once more, only for a sense of closure to overcome me. Many of the moments I experienced during my time here, within these walls, were ones filled with pain. Long nights felt never-ending, but ultimately, everything passed in the blink of an eye. Despite the struggles, there was always something to look forward to, and that’s what I want to remember about my first quarter of college. In this very dorm, a journey began that will soon continue, but until next quarter, be well.
| Author Notes |
Iâ??ve always been told that thereâ??s no such thing as a writer who writes alone, and I learned through the process of writing this book that that couldnâ??t have been closer to the truth. Though it started off and continued as a solitary endeavorâ??a single college student writing by lamplight in a dorm room while his suitemates sleptâ??there were so many minds that came together in this bookâ??s creation, and the coming together of these minds is what ultimately made each of these pieces what they are. And it was through (almost) weekly postings to FanStory that this practice really took off.
The encouragement I received, particularly from Alexandra, who emphasized the importance of human connection, made this creative journey feel authentic and meaningful. So, a heartfelt thank you. As my first quarter came to an end, the question of what would happen next and if Iâ??d continue became more significant. The uncertainty of whether I would continue weighed on me as I discovered a love for sharing, but I also couldnâ??t deny or discount the insurmountable challenges I faced in the process. There were times I really struggled. Considering the challenges of being a college student, I grappled with the balance between writing for myself and meeting external expectations, and it bothered me that I couldn't reconcile the two. But even if that balance is never found, I think thatâ??s okay. That, too, is part of the experience. That, too, is a delight. If anything, I hope to continue finding joy in life's simple pleasures, whatever and wherever they may be, big or small, and being able to write and share pieces about such mundane experiences has been the greatest reward. As to what becomes of this written practice, I'll put my trust in time. To my professors, CF Emily, lab TA Gabby, my mom, the supportive FanStory community, my best friend Katharine to the highest degree, and all the others who contributed, I extend this gratitude. Special thanks to The Owl, Benson, and Mission Bakery, whose services played a crucial role in making this journey possible. And to you, the reader, thank you for accompanying me on this adventure. And most of all, thank you, butter croissant. Without your spark, thereâ??d be no flame. So thank you. |
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