6:30 a.m.—Wake up to the static-caterwauling-roborgasm clusterfuck that is my phone alarm. Barely control urge to punch said phone into tiny prickly glass shards of the latest Apple bullshit. Swipe snooze button for nine extra minutes of sleep. Repeat eleven more times.
7:59 a.m.—Wake up—again—and almost roll out of my lofted bed in panic. Hit head on low East Campus ceiling. Question to self: sprint to my 8:30 a.m. class in pajamas to demonstrate to my professor that I care about academics, or get dressed because I’m gross as hell and don’t want anyone to know?
8:45 a.m.—I am late to class. Grossness remains on the down low.
9:55 a.m.—Bask in the glow of [Professor] Shanna Benjamin’s [English] scholarly glory. Worry she totally knows I have a prof-crush on her. Awkwardly crabwalk out of the room.
10:00 a.m.—Go back to sleep because fuck 8:30.
10:01 a.m.—Wake back up to think about the majestic creature that is Mark Aaron Spero ’16. Begin writing elegant poetry about the wild contours of his burgeoning beard. Feel satisfied with my attempt at art. Fervently hope Sir Spero will love me more for my efforts.
12:45 p.m.—Wake up feelin’ like P-Diddy … washed up, confused and undeserving of Cassie Ventura.
12:56 p.m.—Start homework.
12:58 p.m.—End up watching House of Cards instead.
1:33 p.m.—Become oddly attracted to President Frank Underwood.
1:35 p.m.—Perturbed at my growing attraction to this (smooth ass) steadily aging (like a fine wine) older white gentleman, I stop watching HOC.
3:00 p.m.—Play Harvest Moon and Animal Crossing because I’m a true gam3r.
5:03 p.m.—Spend some time showin’ a little love to my sweet ass succulents named Jaheed Monroe III, Sophie, Gollum, Lil’ Bill and Frodo, respectively. Succulents repay my love with prickly needles. I guess love really does hurt.
5:10 p.m.—Blast the yung homie Nina Simone in my headphones as I stomp on over to Food House ™. Walk up in that piece like I own the place. Everyone knows I don’t, but because Food House ™ peeps are chill and lovely they don’t call me out on my shit. (Thanks pals.)
8:30 p.m.—Blast the yung homie Tupac Amaru Shakur in my headphones on the way back to East [Campus] while thinking about being Black in America.
9:00 p.m.—Call my brother. Because being Black in America is hard, especially when you’re a Black boy.
11:55 p.m.—Smooch roommate on the forehead before bed, because she’s the bae.
12:01 a.m.—Waltz my fine ass to bed in Tupac socks and Mean Girls pajamas because I’m fucking worth it.
