5:00 a.m.—Wakes up in a sweat because my room is 90 degrees.
5:05 a.m.—Searches for the thermostat.
5:06 a.m.—Wonders how the fuck I’ve lived in this house for two months and still don’t know where the thermostat is.
5:10 a.m.—Finally finds thermostat, returns to bed.
7:20 a.m.—Redirects my anger from the thermostat to my alarm and the fact that the sun is coming up.
8:00 a.m.—Settles into class. Realize I left my thermos at home. Realize I also left my readings at home. I also do not have a pen.
10:00 a.m.—Bemoans that my 10 a.m. intro class I took on a whim is in the same room as my major requirement, so I can’t skip it without literally walking past the professor on her way to my 10 a.m. intro class.
11:55 a.m.—Dish line shift at D-Hall.
12:50 p.m.—Redirects my anger from my alarm and the sun to the people that leave silverware on their tray instead of putting it in the silverware spot.
2:15 p.m.—Returns to High Street and immediately showers because I haven’t washed my D-Hall hat for the entire four years I’ve worked in D-Hall.
3:00 p.m.—Packs my bag with multiple poetry books, my laptop, all my chargers, my notebook, a blanket and snacks in preparation for sitting on my porch for multiple hours.
3:10 p.m.—Fully settles into porch life.
3:15 p.m.—Forgets what life was like before I had a porch to sit on for most of my day.
4:20 p.m.—Forgets there is a world beyond my porch. My world is the porch now. It is my home. My closest companion.
5:30 p.m.—Sets alarm for one hour and goes upstairs to take a nap.
5:35 p.m.—Turns off alarm because I start being honest with myself.
7:50 p.m.—Wakes up from the nap.
8:00 p.m.—Bemoans my inability to take a short nap. Feels like I slept through the apocalypse and I am the only human left alive. Searches desperately around my house for housemates.
8:05 p.m.—Finds Emily Porter ’18, who does not live with me, on my porch. Prepares for another multiple-hour stretch of sitting on my porch.
10 p.m.—Joined by Yufei Wang ’18, who does live with me, and Artis Curiskis ’18, who does not.
10:10 p.m.—Instead of having a conversation, I listen to Artis and Yufei playing the porch guitar (we have no idea how long it’s been there) and serenading me with an improvised song outlining all my embarrassing/failed romantic endeavors.
10:20 p.m.—Listens to Yufei and Artis make plans to start a band whose entire discography will be songs about my embarrassing/failed romantic endeavors.
10:30 p.m.—Emily Porter ’18 has started to feel ignored and is now sitting on my lap.
11 p.m.—My friends listen graciously as I talk about poetry with the fervor of a Catholic religious fanatic in the 1700s. I launch into a justification of my Catholic jokes because I was confirmed in the Catholic church. Continues to make jokes at Catholics’ expense, but talks fondly about my confirmation saint, Francis of Assisi, because he liked animals, which is the actual singular reason I chose Francis of Assisi to be my confirmation saint.
11:10 p.m.—Says something along the lines of “poetry is the one true expression of the divine,” and despite this my friends still continue to humor me.
11:45 p.m.—Makes multiple packets of Mama noodles to feed the now hoard of people who have gathered on my porch. Watches as every male-identifying person on the porch passes around our guitar to play folksy songs.
12:45 a.m.—Gathers books, chargers, laptop, notebook, blanket and snacks and retires upstairs to bed, feeling loved.
1:45 a.m.—Wonders why the fuck I can’t sleep. Remembers my multiple hour nap.
2:30 AM—Finally falls asleep.
