February 1st, 1993
I’m feeling so gross right now. But this hangover is good for me. It means I didn’t puke up my beer and popcorn before collapsing into bed last night. It means I didn’t twist myself over the toilet and into the pathetic perfectionist girl cliche, toothbrush down the throat and all.
My suitemates are all clappy, squealy and sorority girl excited over their new skit for the Delta Gamma pledges. I volunteered to help them last week when I was delirious with heartbreak and believed I could better myself through the sisterhood. I was forgetting one fundamental difference between them and me: They get excited about things. THEY GET EXCITED ABOUT THINGS. Little things. I do not get 1/10 as excited over the most monumental events in my life as these two get excited over a fucking five minute pledge skit.
Roughly 2000 students know me as the writer of “hilarious” newspaper columns–especially hilarious to me since no one seems to notice that these columns make fun of the very values they hold so dear. I am The Collegian Girl. And I still walked home from the row alone last night. I left all my friends behind (My friends. I have so many friends. More friends than I’ve ever had in my life. Ha ha ha.) because they were all having the great time that eludes my grasp.
Nothing I do gets me anywhere. “Your article was so funny.” Thanks. “You were so amazing in the musical.” Thanks. “You absolutely made the entire skit.” Thanks Thanks Thanks Thanks Thanks Thanks Thanks.
Silence.
M.
