An Average Day In College

It’s 10:37 AM; you wake up to your friend screaming the lyrics to hellboy by Lil Peep because his ex exchanged tongues with a guy in Cabo with a forearm tattoo. Your eyes feel like you just swam at the YMCA for six hours, and you’re about as hydrated as Bear Grills six days into drinking his own piss. Life has been better, but there’s nothing Mia Malakova can’t fix so you find an old sock on the other side of your room and intoxicate it with your liquid Chia Pets. There’s no point in eating until noon, where you will make a Chipotle burrito last two meals, so you throw on Elder Ring and get a little nostalgic because your jailbroken Xbox with Skyrim was the fucking shit. You should check in on your roommate’s well-being, but he hasn’t filled the Brita since the Korean war, so he can suffer a little bit.

You have one class today at two, which is a genius scheduling strategy on your part because you can be a piece of shit until the hangover wears off. Usually, you would have your friend sign you in, but you watched Good Will Hunting the other day, so you once again have a Steve Balmer amount of passion about your academic career. You have to fart five minutes into some guy that looks like the Chicken Man from Toy Story talking about Duke Ellington; this is hell. The girl in front of you is on Free People toggling- *insert tournament speak* When you finally look at the clock, you realize you have thirty-two minutes left in Survey of Jazz. This is where you experience the worst part about being a man. You’re nodding off; your boy downstairs keeps getting excited for no reason as Louis Armstrong is skippa-dee-doo-boppin’ away. When this hellscape is finally over, you bump Like A G6 anxiously because god forbid anybody knew you were like this; The GroupMe would look like Sherman’s march to sea. 

When you finally get home, two younger kids are sitting on your couch watching South Park. For no reason at all, this pisses you off, so you walk past them and throw a Tim Dillon rant about Disney adults on your laptop. You have a quiz later that you can cheat on, and you should be filling out job applications, but…life in the big city. Out of nowhere, you get a Snapchat notification from the girl you hooked up with last weekend. It’s a forehead selfie; this inevitably means you left her more disappointed than she was when she finished Game of Thrones. Slightly sad and a little confused, you get some chicken out of your fridge. It doesn’t matter that you watched a documentary where illegals were kicking the shit out of these birds, because if you’re telling me some Sweet Baby Rays and slightly overcooked chicken doesn’t slap, I cannot trust you. As you scroll instagram and eat your shitty chicken, you see a post from newage journalism conglomerate “Rap” about Pete Davidson and Kanye West. You would gladly be happy if you never heard those names again. Itching for something to take your mind off of your love life, you open Tik Tok to my fucking face. 

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