Listen, I don’t have much time. They’re giving me four whole minutes and 37seconds to call my long-distance boyfriend so I can “lay the ground for letting him go gently.” I said I wanted privacy, but their lanyards are still within jingling distance. I’ll take what I can get.
Despite initial concerns from my superiors in the office of the SIA (Senate Intelligence Agency) about my ability to reproduce the bright-eyed stare and blissful ignorance of a fresh-off-the-seven-hour-car-ride first-year, I’m proud to report that they haven’t clocked me yet. Granted, their critical thinking was washed away with shitty, watered down beer from baby’s very first (and lamest) frat party, but I like to think I’m convincing in my role. I deserve an Oscar alone for going through the Hell of those god awful name-major-hometown conversations.
I’ve managed to accrue some hefty intel since my last check-in. In accordance with our instructions from the higher-ups in ‘Down With Reslife: A Resistance for Rodent-Free Housing,’ the fear of God has been successfully installed in pretty, shiny, sweet-smelling little heads (they shower every day. Who has that much time?), and they have been taught to cower, point and stare when meeting RAs outside their perceived natural habitat of the First-Year Communes. I hope to continue on this path until they resort to the “if I’m not moving, they can’t see me” method of predator avoidance. Someone’s gotta show these highschool overachievers their place, and I’ve never said no to a friendly spot of recreational bullying.
Our research enquiries, however, have been less fruitful. Even after hours of simpering chatter over empty fry boats, I still have no goddamn clue why they flock to the Pit like fledgling geese scrambling to shit on my lawn. Preliminary investigation shows that they’re so terrified of being alone with their thoughts that such situations devolve into an endless cycle of “I’ll leave when you head out,” but this hypothesis does little to explain how the laws of physics contort to host a full 15 bodies at a six-person roundtable. Maybe this is the shit King Arthur was on.
My strategy for going undercover: closing my eyes and reliving every negative emotion I’ve ever experienced, then grinning as wide and as nervously as my facial muscles will allow. Smiley and vulnerable will get you far in life. As of yet, some prepubescent-ass kid (who I would swear on my own life and GPA was 12 years old) has tried to explain ordering at the Wok to me, five different people offered directions when I was wandering anxiously around Q&i, and I even managed to get the Wilson Day shirt (what can I say, this year’s version slaps). Is this for science? That’s what I keep telling myself. Has this permanently altered my brain chemistry and rendered me incapable of forming genuine human attachments? Probably!
Seriously, how did we do this? I’m exhausted. These first-years are getting no sleep, no stimulants (but that will soon change come first “midterm” season), and they’re up at the crack of dawn for first choice of Douggie’s slim breakfast pickings. It’s a living, but certainly not a life. Half of them go to class religiously, and I’m convinced the other half are unfamiliar with the conception of college as an academic institution. God, I wish that were me.
When I was first approached about this espionage stuff, I was skeptical. We’ve all got to make our own mistakes as first-years — and boy, did I make mine — but I’ve since come to appreciate the value of this assignment (beyond the stipend, free room and board, and hazard pay. Fellow student employees, you have to get in on this. Integrity gets you nowhere, but treason will pay for blackout curtains). Some of those first-year friend groups needed to end yesterday. I’ll catalyze heartbreak all day long if it means fewer overheard ruinous housing arguments. Don’t shit where you eat, and don’t eat where your shitty friends will leave their shit to rot.
And when the time comes, I’ll vanish away in the night. Like an angel of darkness, I shall depart, taking with me their life stories and deepest, darkest secrets, and leave them to become the jaded, burnt-out stoners they were always meant to be. Maybe we’ll cross paths someday. If so, I really hope they won’t try to speak to me.
That’s all I’ve got to report today. Hey, I had a quick question about overtime — oh shit. Shit they’re back.
“Omigod, hey besties!! I’ve missed you soooo much! Craigory was good, he’s being kinda bitchy about opening up the relationship, but like, the frat guys in my DMs won’t wait forever. Are you ready for the football game? Go team!!”
