7:03 a.m.—I wake to the soft patter of rain and ring in this Monday the only way I know how…
7:15 a.m.—My neighbor knocks gently on the door to tell me that Hilary Duff’s “Come Clean” is more of an afternoon jam and that regardless of the hour, four consecutive spins is probably too many.
7:55 a.m.—I arrive five minutes early to Noyce for some volumetric analysis. Rough, I know, but I’m a senior BioChem major.
8:30 a.m.—After some baller titrations, this professor informs me that I may, in fact, be the most gifted student to ever grace Grinnell’s campus, but I remind her that Herbie Hancock ’60 (of Herbie: Fully Loaded fame) also went to this school and she reluctantly agrees that his collective accomplishments are, well, momentous.
9:05 a.m.—I budge in line for breakfast at the DHall and pop a few biscuits in the bagel toaster.
9:06 a.m.—A dining employee in the signature red polo shirt tells me that you can’t toast biscuits.
9:07 a.m.—I run a quick Google Search: “Can biscuits be toasted?”
9:09 a.m.—Answers vary.
10:40 a.m.—I bump into a cute person. We talk for a bit before she tells me that I have Sriracha on my knee.
11:05 a.m.—I Instagram a bird in front of Steiner.
12:06 p.m.—2 Likes.
1:05 p.m.—3 Likes.
2:27 p.m.—Disappointed, I delete the photo and conclude that 2014 is just not a good year for birds.
4:02 p.m.—I overhear a first-year tell another first-year that he’s going to beat up some “fourth-year poet” for stealing his girlfriend and wonder if Emerson also had his share of swole haters.
5:04 p.m.—I feed soup to ducks one spoonful at a time. They like it. The ducks like the soup. Suddenly, James Marlow ’16 appears and whispers in my ear, “We are all just croutons in the wind.”
5:30 p.m.—I have a three-hour dinner in the DHall because one Asian Hot Dog just isn’t enough.
9:45 p.m.—I pop into Gardner on my way home to catch the tail end of rap guy Drake’s performance (part of the [Concerts] Fall Line-Up) and we lock eyes from across the room.
10:04 p.m.—Drake takes me into the green room where he says, “take a … shot for me” and we both laugh. I tell him I don’t drink. He says that he respects me. I look up to Drake the rapper.
10:30 p.m.—Drake and I sit on Cleveland loggia and sip that chamomile while watching fireworks. I remind him that there’s a song called “Fireworks” on his debut album. He laughs. I laugh. We laugh.
10:52 p.m.—We climb excitedly back through the window and Drake bumps his knee on my bed frame. He apologizes, but I tell him it’s okay. He then says, “Hold on, I’m going home.” We laugh. It’s a classic Drake moment.
10:53 p.m.—Drake is gone.
