It’s 2:47pm, your class starts at 3, and you haven’t even begun to put on shoes. At 2:50pm, you walk out the door to embark on the fifteen-minute walk to class that you can do in twelve if you really want to get there somewhat on time. You don’t, though, so you pop your AirPods in and blast “Pocketful of Sunshine” by Natasha Bedingfield on repeat. You don’t know what everyone who walks by thinks you’re listening to, but you can guarantee it isn’t that.
One block into your walk you run into the kid from your floor freshman that spent orientation week experimenting with psychedelics because the freedom overload that hit him when he got to college was too much for him to handle. You fucking hate this kid. No one on your floor liked him, but he somehow manages to find you everywhere on campus and refuses to admit to himself that no one wants to talk to him. Luckily, you’re already late to class, so you can give him the old sliparoo when he tells you that he was on his way to pick up some Ketamine and asks if you want to join.
You look down at your phone and see that it’s now 2:57pm and you still have seven minutes left of your walk. For a moment you consider speeding up, but then you remember the time this professor cancelled class just two minutes before it was supposed to start. Everyone was already in the room, and no one realized until fifteen minutes of sitting there. So, fuck that guy, he can deal with you showing up a few minutes into his lecture. Your decision not to hurry to class proves to be a good one when you run into the girl from your World Music recitation that you’ve been trying to impress for the past five weeks. A quick sniff of the pits tells you that you’re in good shape to make some conversation, so you dive in.
After two minutes of you cracking jokes about the fraternity that just got kicked off campus, she gives an awkward goodbye and enters a building you were pretty sure she didn’t have to go into unless she really did need help from the Vietnamese Cultural Center. Fuck it. Back to Bedingfield.
You strut into your class a cool eight minutes after it’s begun, and your professor gives you a dirty look that you ignore while he marks down that you actually did make it to class today. As you pause Natasha and take your seat next to the kid who spends every single class balls deep in World War II conspiracy theory websites, you realize you have to take a dump. So you put your bag down and spend the next fourteen minutes playing Wordle archives in the handicap bathroom down the hall.
