Good Omens

Saturday afternoon stretches out lazily. There's no homework to finish. No papers to write or books to read or problem sets to solve. No exams to study for. Several hours with no demands at all. It's the perfect time to get acquainted with the school's library.

Even in late October, California is sunny and warm. The library is several blocks away, and the walk over is pleasant and drawn-out.

Four stories tall, it sits on the border of two school campuses, next to the student health center.  The entrance is beneath a walk-way, which connects the original building to a second, newer one.  The doubling of space makes the library feel larger than itself.

Swiping a student ID card grants access to the building. A quick climb up the stairs reveals the main level. To the left is the entrance to the skyway that grants access to the other half of the library. That side is mostly reference material. The stacks are on this side.

The stacks seem to exert a magnetic force. Computers and reading rooms are all but ignored on the walk to the amazing stacks, which house the literature collection. The library may be four stories tall, but the stacks have been compressed so that there are seven levels of them. The space is tight, nearly claustrophobic. All the better to pack in even more books.

The stacks only connect to the main library on a few levels. A metal staircase  runs up one side, and tiny desks are crammed in on the sides of it. The classification system is unfamiliar, but it doesn't take too long to descend to the fantasy section, all the way at the bottom. Looking for these books is like descending into a cave. It's fitting.

Terry Pratchett is supposed to be a good author. His Discworld series inspired fanatical reactions in a few people in high school. Unfortunately this library doesn't have a single one of the 30+ books in that series. At least not on the shelves. It's not that surprising, given how limited the fantasy section is. This is a research library, after all, and the focus is different from the libraries in high school and middle school.

What it does have turns out to be even better: a novel called Good Omens that was co-authored by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Gaiman has written some excellent books, so any chance to read more is well worth taking. And a co-authored book seems like a much more gentle access point to this prolific author whose inspires such ardent fandom.

The book is carried almost reverently back up through the stacks to the main level of the library. There it's checked out with the assistance of a computer. Then back up to the dorm, and the grassy field outside it. A perfect reading spot is discovered, and the book is promptly devoured in the lazy afternoon sun.

Formal Wear

I've been thinking I'd
Like to see your eyes
Open up real wide
The minute that you see me

I spent the summer of 2007 listening to nothing but The Counting Crows. Their first four albums were always on my iPad. On my computer. On repeat. On shuffle. I could have recited the lyrics to any one of their songs off the top of my head. As the summer turned into fall, those lyrics stayed in my brain, repeating themselves in snippets and snatches. But as December approached, I zeroed in on one stanza in particular.

Kevin and I had been hooking up in secret since Football season ended in mid-November. Our formal was approaching, and I was determined that we would go public that night, one way or another. I wanted him to admit that we were more than friends, to make some sort of commitment. I wanted his eyes to open up real wide the minute that he saw me. So I knew I'd need a killer dress.

I went to the local mall with my friends the weekend before the dance to find this dress. It didn't take too long for me to zero in on a purple gown. The skirt fell simply with no adornment. The torso was ruched and asymmetrical. The halter straps were decorated with shining gems. I felt beautiful wearing it, and I knew that it would match the only pair heels I owned. Although those strappy, black heels would have gone with almost any dress I bought.

On the day of, I helped decorate the dorm's courtyard with my roommate. We laughed and gossiped and she assured me that everything would go to plan. Then it was time to get ready. I'd been carefully not letting Kevin see the dress, hoping to surprise him.

The beginning of the evening found me on the second story balcony, looking down at twinkling lights and fancy friends. Kevin found me there and presented me with a rose, as the men were supposed to do for their dates this evening. And when he looked at me, I knew the dress didn't matter. He'd brought me a rose because he was feeling all the same things as me and I was beautiful because I was just beginning to fall in love.

The next few hours were a blur of roses, champagne, chocolate, and dancing. It was everything I'd hoped for from my senior prom. By the end of the evening Kevin and I had agreed to be monogomous (though that's a longer story). A friend walked in on us on the couch, so the secret was out, and my perfect dress ended the evening in a crumpled pile on the floor, exchanged for the more comfortable option of shorts and a t-shirt.

It was fun to get dressed up. It was even more fun to realize how little it mattered. To Kevin, and ultimately to me. A pretty dress is fun, but it's just a dress. Years later, when I was shopping for a wedding dress, I bought the third one I tried on. It fit, it looked good, and I didn't need the stress of finding something perfect. Especially since I'd already had the perfect dress, seven years previously, when Kevin wore a tux and gave me a rose and agreed to be my boyfriend.

Exam Day

I flip through the pages of my midterm, checking the answers one more time. I'm mad that I don't have a clue on the bonus question, but excited to be at a school where the professors are nerdy enough to ask the students to name all four members of teen girl squad for extra credit. It feels cool, in a completely uncool way. It makes me feel like I fit in, completely, finally.

I finish double-checking. Chemistry isn't my strongest subject and it would be awful to fail my very first college exam.  I think I got everything right though. Or right enough. Even with that awful song playing through my mind

I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, each and every day

The sophomores were blasting it on repeat over every speaker on campus last night

I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, I love frosh chem, in every single way

 Occasionally they interjected it with a loop of slightly more useful songs set to Beatles tunes.

nrt, nrt, nrt, nrt.  The pressure times the volume, nrt.

I'll never be able to listen to Let It Be again without hearing the revised lyrics. I'll also never forget the ideal gas law. I guess that's a win.

I walk to the front of the room and add my paper to the stack of completed tests. Then I turn and leave the lecture hall.

Outside, I take a deep breath and enjoy the Southern California sunshine for a moment before beginning the trek back to my dorm. I'd been hearing about this exam, the First Frosh Chem Test, since I interviewed as a prospective student. It wasn't nearly as bad as everyone had led me to believe.

I join the flock of other freshmen who have completed the exam heading back to our dorms. Everyone's chatting about plans for the rest of the day. No one has another class until the afternoon, and with the pressure of the exam gone it seems like we have all the time in the world to relax.

Approaching the residential end of campus I notice that it's a lot louder than normal. Normally the only people outside this early are either on their way to or from class. But most of the upperclassmen are outside. Running back and forth with water guns and hoses.

A water balloon splashes on the sidewalk next to me, followed quickly by another. Some of the frosh are trying to dodge out of the way, others are running to see what the excitement is all about.

The dorms are absolute chaos. A pyramid of dressers, drawers, and bookshelves is displayed in the courtyard. It seems to be as tall as the dorm itself. An entire room has been recreated in the courtyard as well. A couple of cages house freshmen who have been soaked and are now enjoying beers while upperclassmen occasionally hose them down again.

Another dorm has stacked 50 or more mattresses into a pile near the balcony. Students are taking turns jumping from the second story onto it.

A clothesline has been strung up diagonally across the courtyard with all sorts of underwear on display: boxers, briefs, panties, and bras.

There's a full-fledged water balloon fight happening, though the sophomores seem to control nearly all of the ammunition. Frosh are stealing what they can, but are usually promptly punished for their cunning with sprays of water.

I continue on to my dorm, on the far end of campus. I want to put my calculator away before joining in the fun. At the entrance to my dorm I encounter a hastily constructed labyrinth of fences. I have to go through it to reach my room, and there are sophomores stationed all around to pour buckets of water on me, drop water balloons, or spray me with a water gun.

I hold up my calculator in defense. One of them points to the alternate route that's been set up if I don't want to get wet, but I opt to simply hand her my calculator instead. They pass it along while I make my way through the labyrinth. At the other end, I feel like I've been dunked in a pool. Happily my calculator remains dry and functional.

My roommate has already been back to the room. It seems that she had to deal with a hundred Dixie cups stapled together and filled with water. I'm glad she got here first and dismantled them. I throw my stuff on the bed and dash back to the water fight and pile of mattresses. A campus-wide party is the perfect way to blow off steam after my first college exam.

Double Lecture

The alarm starts chirping and I open my eyes to see sunlight streaming through the window. It's seven in the morning, which still feels entirely too early. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, having made it through most of a year of 8 AM classes. But there are some things that I'll just never get used to, and mornings are at the top of that list.

As I move to get out of bed, arms encircle me from behind. The reason I'm so bleary-eyed this morning holds me in bed. "Don't go," he mumbles.

"I have to. I have class."

"What class?"

"Double lecture."

Everyone knows what that means. Three hours of chemistry and physics, first thing in the morning. It feels like an outdated hazing ritual. Everyone's gone through it, and those who survived are still here. They don't make it much easier for those of us currently going through it. But it's a right of passage, a way of proving that you belong at this school.

"Skip it." But I'm already extricating myself from the bed and looking for my towel.

"I would if physics were first. I can't skip chemistry. I'm barely passing as it is." The second part's true anyway. But I wouldn't skip physics either. I haven't missed a class yet, and I'd like to keep that record up.

When I return from my shower, the guy has fallen back to sleep. He's a year ahead of me, and a CS major to boot. He probably doesn't have any classes until the afternoon. I decide to let him sleep and hope that he's gone by the time I get back from class. I get dressed and check my email while the water for my tea boils. Then I grab the thermos and my notebook and dash out the door.

On the way into the lecture hall I stop for a bagel. I'm a firm believer that breakfast is not to be skipped. Besides which, the act of pulling apart the bagel, smearing it in cream cheese, and gnawing away on the chewy bread will keep me awake until the caffeine kicks in.

I find a seat near the middle of the room and set up my notebook, pencil, and eraser. The bagel goes on top, and I take notes around it for the beginning of class. I do my best to write down everything important. It's not long before I'm almost completely distracted, playing dots with my friends and keeping a tally of every time the professor says "thus". She usually averages once a minute, though it can climb higher if she's particularly nervous. I think this is her first semester lecturing.

At 9:30 we get a brief break to stretch our legs and use the restroom. A few people use the opportunity to head back to their rooms, and I briefly consider joining them. But he's probably not in my bed anymore. Even if he is, I'm not sure I'd want a repeat of last night. Attraction so rarely survives the sober light of day.

We file back in to our seats when the physics professor arrives. Switching from organic chemistry to mechanics is old-hat by now. Though to be honest I'm just taking notes on auto-pilot at this point. It's a good thing I learned most of this in my high school AP course. I'm not sure my ego could handle the frustration of not understanding two subjects back-to-back like this.

Halfway through the second lecture, it feels like my brain is liquefying in my head. This professor has no interesting ticks to track, the games with friends have fallen off, and taking notes is growing more and more tedious. The professor is aware of this, and he grants us a short break to stretch our legs and shake loose the cobwebs. Then it's back for a truly torturous 45 minutes. I'd make a bad joke about time dilation if I had the brainpower.

Finally the lecture is over and I troop to the dining hall with my friends for an early lunch. Three hours of lectures have left our brains in desperate need of nourishment and the release of socialization. The semester is almost over. Just a few more weeks of double lecture before it becomes nothing more than a bad memory and something to tease next year's class about. It's not yet clear that this is only the beginning of a truly grueling workload.

Cheerleader

She knows how it looks. Following the boys to every one of their games. Keeping track of various statistics for them. Dropping everything to spend a Tuesday or a Thursday evening at another campus, not even drinking while everyone else does. It looks a little bit pathetic, a little bit like she might be in love with one of them. And even if she is, so what? It beats the alternative.

The League was established by some guys a couple of campuses over, and her friends were quick to sign up. They dubbed themselves Team Holy, and she immediately signed on as their first cheerleader. Or maybe she's a groupie? Keeping score makes her feel useful  at least. But she's still devoting two nights a week to watching her friends play beer pong, mostly against people she's never met before.

It actually doesn't seem weird until she steps back a bit. Since coming to college, beer pong has been at the center of most of her social life. The rules are simple, the games are fun, and there's a lot of beer involved. What could be better than that? There are certainly a lot of things that could be worse. So even when she's not actively participating, she's happy to hang out. It's how she spends most of her free time anyway, and it gets her out of her toxic room for a few hours, lets her relax with her friends.

She's not even entirely sure how the league works. It's not exactly like a basketball bracket, because teams aren't getting eliminated yet. Team Holy is assigned games against other teams, seemingly at random. She knows that someone is in charge of everything. Who plays who and when. Who won, who lost. The statistics she records are more detailed: bring backs, bounces, blocks. She's proud that her friend is one of the best blockers in the league. No one can bounce a ball past him.

At some point there will be a tournament. The standings will determine how everyone is slotted into a bracket, and, after a booze-soaked evening, a grand champion will be declared. She doesn't want that night to come. It will mean the end of these games. The end of this easy excuse to get her out of her room and away from the drama.

So she'll gladly play the cheerleader. She'll put her energy into supporting the friends who have given her an excuse to get away from her roommates and off campus for an hour. She'll mark down the score, she'll joke about being a groupie. She'll wonder, briefly, if they think her hanging-on is as weird as other people do. But then she'll cheer at another great shot and allow herself this brief escape.

Broomball

Eight of us are crammed in a car that seats five. One person sits in the passenger seat with another on his lap. Four of us are squished into the back seat. Someone even volunteered to ride in the trunk.

Sober drivers are hard to come by when there's a broomball game. It's a game best enjoyed while drunk, and as many people as possible want to enjoy it to the fullest extent. But the ice rink is a ten minute drive from campus, so some people have to stay sober and their cars get pretty crowded.

The ride over is loud. We've had a lot to drink in preparation for this once-a-semester game. The windows are all rolled down so people can hang out and provide some relief for the cramped car. The music is blasting and everyone is shouting over it.

At the ice rink we spill out of the car and go inside. The rink is a mass of people. At least a hundred students, maybe closer to two hundred, have gathered. We're milling around, sliding across the ice.

Human + alcohol - friction = laughter (and bruises in the morning).

At midnight the game starts and a ball is thrown into the rink. The drunken mass now has a purpose. We are running towards the ball, trying to get it first. There’s only one rule in broomball: get the ball in the other team's net.

It doesn't take long to figure out  that if you go near the ball, odds are you will end up in a pile of people. And if the ball comes to you, you will be at the bottom of a pile of people unless you throw it away immediately. Once you are in one of these piles you learn that your body bends in new and interesting ways. Ways that will probably be painful tomorrow.

Tonight drunk trumps pain.

At one point I see my roommate going for the ball while a frosh is to pulling her away. I do what my alcohol soaked brain believes is most sensible: I go after the frosh. The only problem is that he’s way bigger than I am and pushes me away easily. The next moment I’m down on the ice, and he’s reaching out his hand to help me up. My head hurts. I must have hit it when he knocked me over. I wave his hand away and indicate that I’m okay. Then I make my way over to the side of the rink.

The game’s been going on for half an hour. The other team has yet to score and we’ve scored 3 or 4 times already. Possibly 5. It’s a little unclear, but we're winning. That's all that matters.

When I’m reasonably sure that the room is spinning because of the alcohol in my system and not my head injury, I go back out on the ice. This time I make my way over to our goal, where a group of girls is lined up to block the other team from scoring. Arms linked, fingers woven into the net, our job is to block people more than balls. Which we do quite effectively.

Soon enough the timer buzzes indicating the end of the game. The final score? 69 to bitch, as always. We won, as expected. Some people say we scored 4 times, others say it was as much as 9. The other team didn't score at all.

We pile back in the car and go home. Tomorrow will be painful. Bruises and cuts on top of a hangover make getting out of bed hard. But that only lasts for a day. Memories are forever.

AMPM

There comes a time, several hours after dinner, if you're still awake, when you find yourself in need of another meal. This happens often in college. Nights are short. Most people survive on fewer than the recommended eight hours of sleep. So a fourth meal find its way into the routine. A midnight snack, to keep you going just a bit longer.

There comes a time, on some nights, when you find yourself craving an adventure. It doesn't have to be very exciting. Just an excuse to get out of your room and go for a walk. It's really more of a destination than an adventure when you come down to it. But when your head is cloudy with pot and a lack of sleep, the mundane can become epic.

These desires don't always converge. Sometimes all you want is food. The body high overpowers you, and it is all you can do to make some instant mac and cheese. Or call the Thai place that delivers until two the morning. Other times, the desire to wander overpowers the need for food. On these nights, it is time to go exploring. To find the secret gardens and hidden artwork that seem so much more magical after the sun has set.

But when you find yourself craving both a burrito and a ramble, there is only one place to go: ampm.

The gas station is a few blocks away from campus. It's far enough for a good walk and talk, but close enough that you won't forget your purpose or get lost. It has everything a stoned student could want: microwave burritos, hostess cupcakes, chips of every flavor. Buying food presents the challenge of pretending that you aren't stoned, even as you're secure in the knowledge that it won't rally matter.

There are tables outside if you need a break before the long walk back to the dorm. And there's a playground halfway back if you've still got some energy to burn off. All in all, the trip to ampm has everything a restless stoner could want. Which is why we seem to go there all the time. So long as nothing more exciting is going on, that is.

The College Alphabet

The first twenty-six posts on this blog came from a high school English assignment: one short story for every letter of the alphabet. They went up quickly because they were already written. And though some are embarrassing (obvious, melodramatic, unedited), others seem to have some real grace. Over a decade later and I'm still genuinely proud of a handful of them.

I've been planning to apply the same treatment to my college experience for years now. I've even written and posted some of those stories, though I have since taken them down. But I have a hard time committing to this project. This last time I came close to making it happen. But things slipped, life got in the way, I started questioning the quality of the stories.

Then I realized that one of the darker entries was scheduled to go up on Christmas Day and I scrapped the entire thing. It was the final excuse I needed to walk away from this project yet again.

Not too far away, though. I did make progress. I generated a good number of ideas.

So it's time to commit again. Third time's the charm, right? Is this the third time I've started this particular project?

Anyway, a few caveats before we dive in. These are for me, more than you. The ten of you who might be reading this blog. Who might care about the baby steps I'm taking towards becoming a writer. A real one. One whose work people want to read even if they've never met me. One who gets paid for it.

These will, essentially be rough drafts. I'm going for quantity over quality here. Write and write and write some more. All of the stories are true, more or less. They're my truth. My remembrances of college, 6-10 years later. Some of you may remember things differently, and that's okay. Sometimes I might deliberately change a name or a detail or something in service of the story. After all, every story is true, but every story is also only true enough. Truth itself is hard to pin down, even in physics.

Along with that truth I should provide a disclaimer. In many ways, college was the best time of my life. In many other ways, it was the worst. I met my people and made friendships that will last a lifetime. I met my husband. I was blessed with more friends than any one person deserves, really. I behaved badly in some instances, did things that still cause me shame and regret. Things that I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for, even if other people have.

I struggled. I drank too much, and I smoked more. I barely passed some of my classes (though I did graduate on time. Barely.) I fought with family and friends. Some relationships were destroyed, others strengthened. I learned a lot about how I deal with stress and how I shouldn't deal with stress. I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder halfway through, and it took a while to figure that out.

A lot of the struggle is behind me, though it will also always be with me. I try to focus on the good memories in these stories, but the bad ones deserve they're place. They're a part of who I am, as much as the good times.

This collection will hopefully speak for itself by the end. But I wanted to put assurances out there first. I've shed the friends I wanted to shed and maintained the relationships that mattered most. I achieved a work-life balance that keeps me balanced. Now we can get down to the messy business of remembering. And writing.

Back on the Horse

Sometimes writing is easy. Ideas come and spin themselves easily into words and sentences and paragraphs. At times like these you do foolish things, like take on a writing project with an unrealistic deadline, commit yourself to three entirely separate blogs, decide to write a novel, all at the same time.

Other times, writing is much harder. Life creeps in around the edges. Who can really be expected to write when the holidays are right around the corner? Or when you have a day job and a never-ending list of books to read and TV shows to watch? When there are a million other things to do and the words just won't come.

It's easy to write when the words are flowing freely from your fingertips. It's harder when you're fighting uphill against bad ideas and writer's block and imposter syndrome. But that's when you write anyway. Writing anyway is what makes you a writer. That's what all the real writers say.

So. No more waiting for the perfect idea, the flash of genius, the mini-vacation when you'll finally have time. It's time to buckle down and do it anyway. It won't be good. It won't be pretty. That's how you get better. Write and write and write until the hay gets spun into gold. Nothing magic, just time spent and work done. That's how dreams come true.

Zelda

I’m not as obsessed with video games as some people I know. Most don’t hold my attention for very long. But there is one series of games that I can play for hours without even realizing any time has passed. The Legend of Zelda captures my imagination.

There is a series of dungeons with difficult bosses that must be defeated. Each room in each dungeon is a puzzle that must be solved, which appeals to my mind. I love entering the rooms and trying to figure out (1) what the puzzle in that particular room is and (2) how to solve it.

On top of the problem solving aspect of the game, the premise appeals to me. Each of the fourteen or fifteen games in the Zelda series centers on a teenage boy who is told that he must save the world. He doesn’t have superpowers or any other special abilities. I like the idea that heroes can be ordinary people.

I sit entranced for hours while I make me way through the dungeons, defeat the bosses, and try to save the imaginary world of Hyrule.

Yale

I look at the bright orange envelope that has arrived for me. The bright orange can only mean one thing: it’s from the people at Explo, the summer program that Yale University offers to high school students who have just completed their sophomore or junior year. 

I take a deep breath and slit open the envelope. I remove a folder, the same color as the envelope, and open it. Inside is a letter informing me of the classes that I’m signed up for (neurology and biomedical ethics), a book of general information, and about ten more forms that need to be filled out and sent back. I fill out as much as I can and hand the forms off to my dad to fill out the rest. 

The little book is mostly filled with rules. There’s even an entire page on the punishment for “sexual behavior”, but it never explains what is actually considered “sexual behavior”. As I flip through the rule, the packing suggestion list and all the other information that has been packed into this twenty page booklet, me excitement grows. I’m actually going to spend three weeks at Yale this summer, without my parents or anyone else.

Xander

Xander-syndrome. It’s when you have a crush on your best guy friends, but he only has eyes for the bubbly blonde sitting next to him. He sees you as his friend, his best friend, but he doesn’t see that you want so much more than that. He doesn’t want to see it. I suffered from Xander-syndrome my freshman year of high school.

I had a crush on a guy who was perfect, in my eyes anyway. Like any guy deserving of the nickname Xander he was nice, funny, loyal, and head-over-heels in love with the one girl he would never have. Like so many people, he wanted the unattainable ideal. I suppose I did, too.

He once told me that I was like a sister to him. No words have ever stung me more. A sibling is the one completely undateable person; no sane person would even consider it. I became determined to share my feelings with him, no matter the cost to my self-esteem. At least then he would know.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get up the courage to tell him to his face. I wrote about it instead. Well, as they say, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I know now that it wasn’t my most brilliant idea, but it seemed good at the time. Anyway the fault isn’t all mine; he completely overreacted.

A year after he found out about my crush, he moved away. For those twelve months he would even look at me, much less speak to me. A perfectly good friendship had been ruined, but at least I learned that these situations should be dealt with face-to-face, if at all possible. If I had told him to his face, he would have still respected my courage at least and the friendship wouldn’t have been completely destroyed.

Woods

Note: I believe that I intended this to be from the point of view of a bird. I'm not sure it worked.

I see her nearly every day, the human girl that comes to these woods. She is an adolescent, a teenager as humans call it. She’s the size of an adult, but still gangly. She has the look of an adolescent. She knows that soon everything that has ever supported her will be stolen and she’ll be forced to redefine her life.

I think she comes to these woods for the solitude and silence they provide her. I know that there are more living beings in this small space than in her entire world and each being has a unique sound. But human beings are such noisy creatures that I’m sure, to her ears, these woods are peaceful.

Maybe she comes here to listen to those sounds, though. She is always very quiet and thoughtful, whether she is wandering the paths here or just sitting on a fallen log. Sometimes I think she’s trying to listen to every sound in these woods, but many are out of her range of hearing. I know she can hear the songs the other birds and I sing, but there are so many I don’t know how she can listen to them. Perhaps she is listening to something deeper, something she can only hear against the peaceful backdrop of these woods.

Vow

 Do you remember? We grew up together; there was nothing that could separate us. We sought each other out at every family gathering and stayed pinned to each other’s sides until your mother or mine tore us apart, saying it was time to go home. We weren’t quite sisters, but cousins was good enough. We still shared the same blood, had the same interests. I was closer to you than any of my other friends.

What happened? Don’t tell me you forgot. When we were seven years old they came and taught us about the dangers of smoking in school. They told us about lung cancer and emphysema and death. I think it scared you even more than it scared me. You made me promise to never smoke. We vowed to each other that we would never even touch a cigarette. And here you are, sixteen years old, going through a pack a day.

Can you tell me why? Did you want to be cool? Did you want everyone else to accept you? Did you tell yourself, it’s just one, one won’t hurt? Did you forget our oath? Can I ask you one more question?

Was it worth it? Was that one year basking in the glow of the popular girl worth betraying me? Was it worth lung disease? Was it worth death? I stayed true to the vow. I’ve never smoked a cigarette and I never intend to. And it’s satisfying to know that I didn’t betray the oath, our promise, or our friendship.

Uber-fest

Note: This is the first time I ever binge-watched a television show. Who would have known it would become such a cultural phenomenon

"Wow, what a beautiful sunset,” Jessi comments from the floor. She has looked up momentarily to see the rays of the low sun piercing through the window blinds.

"Um, Jess, that’s not sunset,” I inform her from my spot on the couch. “That’s sunrise.” I suddenly feel incredibly tired.

Jessi, Katie, and I have been watching television for the past twelve hours. We still have about six to go, not counting breaks. This isn’t just any television, though. I received the complete second season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in the mail yesterday – I preordered it about a month ago. The three of us then decided that it would be a good idea to watch the season straight through, without stopping. These inventive slumber parties will eventually become known as Buffy-fests and will become tradition in our circle of friends.

I turn back to the television. A small part of my brain is beginning to wonder if this was such a great idea. I’m not big on pulling all-nighters, especially when I only slept for about five hours the previous night. Jessi looks wide awake, but closer inspection reveals that she is actually in that state that you always see young children in about fifteen minutes before they crash. Next to me, Katie is curled into a ball on the couch, sleeping peacefully.

I wonder if I’ll be able to stay conscious for the remaining six hours of the marathon. But there's an episode coming up that I wouldn't mind sleeping through. Maybe I can catch a brief nap then. Despite the fatigue, this has been one of the most fun “slumber parties” I’ve been to in a long time. I’m already planning the next one.