Original Publication Information:
Suedomsa the Magazine Summer 1998 Special Edition
You ain't got a job, you ain't got a life by Joni Mirolla
The First Year
Monday morning Professor Reeves and his irrepressible id lecture us on the
role of women in ancient Athenian society. He tells his audience to
excuse his voice and cough for his head is full of nastiness, more than
usual. Heather tells me that someone has written "Fisting is incredibly
romantic" on the wall, as I swallow my lemon yogurt.
Tuesday we suck down tater tots, the staple of any good college vegetarian
diet, as we wait for our afternoon classes to begin. I recieve no mail
today; Heather gets a lingerie catalog and a letter from Grandma. When I
stand to get more ketchup and mayonnaise, she sees a man watching me. At
dinner she sees him again, turning in his seat so he can see as I part the
sea of scroungers to return my tray, the Tray of Jon Zachary's Mom. I
miss it both times and insist she is lying.
Wednesday is the night for dorm bonding through bongs made of hamster
tunnels. Afterwards we do laundry to assauge our white liberal guilt;
Patrick's pants are immune to the pangs and now we can stand by their own
evil power. Our stash of quarters is split between this ritual and
pinball. While I am waiting for my load to dry, I am propositioned by a
terminally Texan dormmate. I ignore him and he drawls, "You don't fool me
sweetheart, your angel games will have to find a new reindeer to play
with."
Thursday we gather together to worship the only public television on
campus. Some fight for seats on the decrepit couches which pour their
white foam guts out small holes made by cigarette burns. We are suckled
by bad programming as characters spill from one bed to the next, oozing
swanky lines. Steve shrieks, "That Amanda is such a bitch...I love it!"
There is a general air of disgust and disbelief that we are willingly
watching the TV equivalent of cheese-whiz. As Heather and I return to our
dorm, we are assaulted by the smoke seeping from the SU, thick with the
smell of air. A woman we do not know tells us we should be put in a room
and made to lick the walls, then runs away at top speed with no obvious
destination.
Friday morning finds us reluctant to get out of bed for lecture. Heather
reminds me that we are here to learn and be prepared for real life. I
inform her that I have learned quite enough about both the ancient Greeks'
obscene notions of womanhood and Professor Reeves. Besides, this is not
real life, quite the contrary my dear, it is the Mad Hatter's Tearoom,
with eleven not-so-secret herbs and social spices. Friday night finds us
on the third floor of a party where we are celebrating that is is a
three-quarters moon, and that it is 79 days until Nitrogen Day, that we
have 54 hours of relieve the pressure of the enormous tumor of academic
stress lest our heads explode. I talk to a classmate made charming by
coaching from his good friend, Jim Beam. He lives on this third floor
party and we head for his room. Lust is never color-fast, and washes out
by Monday.
[You know, some of that I still find decent, and some of it embarrasses me
beyond words. There are several references which are Reed specific (like
Nitrogen Day, a real thing), but if you don't know what they mean they
sound like random weirdness.]
Love, Joni.
