Bobby D'Angelo
You roll over to find your disposable, which by the way, is named like the stupidest thing ever because the government thought they were saving the youth from vaping by taking away flavored pods, and now we have unregulated vapes the size of the CN tower with names like “Nee-how-Kylan Lemon” and “Hannah Montana Mango.” After one decent rip, you discover that, much like a person from an urban community commenting on a Druski video, the thing is skull emoji dead. Not the best start to the day, but it’s warm out, and birds are chirping like a hockey player from Massachusetts, so it’s positive vibes only. You walk into your kitchen to your roommate making eggs. He has recently gotten incredibly into fitness due to a messy breakup and wants a good Hinge profile picture badly.
You walk to class with Jack Harlow moaning in your ear and get a surprising notification that your little cousin has followed you on Instagram. He has his middle school graduation year and “add me on Snapchat” in his bio. AMOS? What the hell does he think this is? Spanish class? This will require a conversation another time because today, you have bigger fish to fry. You have a two-person group project, and your partner is in the business fraternity. He dresses like he’s auditioning for the show White Collar even though it’s eighty-six degrees outside, and he’s not happy with your work ethic. You have to turn it around with a three-hour library sesh after a class where you’ll spend ninety minutes hearing your teacher basically call you, your entire family, and everyone you’ve ever loved racist.
Two hours later, you get an article from your Dad about how the median income out of college for someone in your major has increased tremendously. He doesn’t know that, like eighty percent of people who protested a certain Floridian bill they referred to as the don’t say gay bill, you feel confused about yourself and don’t know what to do about it. Your next move out of college is something only God and the pedophiles that run this country know.
Your stomach starts making noises like a disheveled cat, so you decide to take a walk down the street for a bite to eat. You have two options: you could go to the place you always go for a chicken sandwich, or you could go for a Poki bowl. You want the Poki bowl, let’s not lie to yourself, but you know if any of your friends see you walk out with a Poki bowl, surrounded by a sea of yellow Pi Phi tee-shirts and Kardashian products, it’s over. You take the risk anyway.
