Senior year tastes like cold brew and instant noodles. Not gourmet ramen from Mecha, just salty lumps of regret fueling midnight essays and PSets. My pantry looks like Costco threw up in it: oat milk, honey roasted peanuts, three boxes of Quest protein bars, and one sad bag of stale tortilla chips that now qualify as sandpaper.
Classes have become optional; graduating has not. I wake up, debate skipping Dynamic Earth, then remember my tuition costs more than my net worth ever will. My Life Worth Living professor told me that I should craft a “career vision” and remain “committed to excellence.” Here’s my current vision: I’m splayed across two chairs in HQ, eyes drifting closed, and maybe I’m holding a complimentary bag of popcorn stolen from that Christian group advertising on Cross Campus.
Senior year radiates a “do it now or regret it later” energy; everything is urgent and campus hums like an unavoidable countdown. This may be my last chance to join acapella, even though the last time I sang for an audience was at my fifth grade concert: Bruno Mars’ “Locked Out of Heaven.” Last chance to flirt with frat bouncers who will absolutely forget my name but temporarily enjoy twirling my curly long locks with their thumb and forefinger. Last chance to take a nap on a random bench in New Haven. This sounds most appealing.
Social life fades in and out of my priorities. Group chats fill my phone’s notifications on Monday but I remain silent. My friends all currently live in sweatpants and three-day-old hair: they job hunt and panic and pretend iced lattes will solve all their worries. Weekends still promise parties, but we come with Tums in our back pockets.
I will miss this chaos. I will not miss the days which I’ve perfectly documented with my phone, but I will miss all the dumb ones—like sprinting down Prospect St. for free Ivy plants. I grabbed a pot of greenery, ignoring that every plant I have ever owned has shriveled within days. I’ll miss laughing with my friends as we steal the entire tray of Oatmeal Raisin cookies from Murray’s dining hall on Friday night—how else are we expected to make it through a night of swiping right on Tinder? I’ll even miss crying through finals week in a library cubicle until I remember I have already Credit-D-Failed this 400-level ECON elective. My tears were instantly replaced with a sudden eruption of hysterical laughter that must have scared the guy next to me shitless.
Senior year is messy and so am I. I guess we are a perfect match.
