Dear reader: I write to you a tortured soul. When I was spritely and green like you are now, I would prance and play upon the Butler lawns without a care about the world. One day, I was partaking in a rousing game of spikeball, brown-bagged Whiteclaw in hand. I knew that I had a connect convo scheduled for 3:30, but I was hitting pocket every shot, and I couldn’t afford to give it up. Campus clout was on the line. So I skipped it. I fucking skipped it. Fuck.
Immediately after my bros packed up, I felt intense guilt and shame. I wondered if I could ever look my RA in the eye again. All they wanted was to bestow their kindness and wisdom upon my youthful being in those 15 crucial minutes. They weren’t asking much of me. But my spikeball-fuelled greed and wanton pride kept me from doing the simple task of walking to my RA’s room and having an enlightening chat. And thus, I never fully developed into a successful college student. My beginner’s mind was corrupted. How could I ever partake in My Columbia College Journey™? Naturally, I sought out the ombudsman, but I don’t know what in sweet hell an ombudsman is, so I went to the Office of Admissions. I told them that they had made a mistake. How could they have admitted such a lowlife as myself? They initially reassured me that I deserved my spot at this renowned institution, but then I informed them that I had missed my connect conversation. Their countenance grew grim. I could see the disgust swell in their eyes. I knew what I had done. I could not remain in this place. I packed up my things and left in disgrace. I sought out the only home worthy of someone guilty of such crimes: the shade of a bridge.
Dear RA: if you’re reading this, I’ll be forever indebted to you if you’ll have me for a connect convo.