I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and doesn’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time

I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic

Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
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A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory

When it came to love
I had no real plan
I know I wanted to connect in an intimate way
with experimentation and playfulness

I was short on experience
there was a pandemic
I’d had few ‘at-bats’
that’s a sports metaphor

Much of it seemed surreal and abstract
like we’d entered another realm of everyday places
there was a subtle unpredictability
that was unfiltered, instinctive and unapologetically unhinged

freedom permeated every element
still, our collaboration allowed for honest conversation
I remember asking, “What are we doing?”
Thinking back, It underlined how vastly different our two experiences were
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Songs for this:
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee  [E]
Blur by embrs & astralcurrent

(It’s that vernal, infernal, tax season. How about a tax avoidance vignette? It’s poetic—in it’s own way)

Some students at a table near us in the dining hall were discussing America’s financial inequities. One guy was saying that we ought to “tax the crap” out of billionaires and their billions—and there was agreement all around—the consensus was downright mob-like.

I had to chuckle though, because these guys have no idea how wealth is managed in the world today. I bet, for instance, they think Musk has 200 billion dollars in his basement somewhere, but no, Musk’s 200 billion is his ‘net worth,’ the theoretical value of his stock portfolio (or his unrealized assets).

Just between us chickens, I’m related to a few ‘filthy rich’ people, (no, NOT my parents) and I’ve met many others and I can assure you, dear reader, that the ‘filthy rich’ have nothing you can tax. Now, I’m not a finance major. Everything I know, I learned from my Grandmère and my parents who thought a girl ought to know about money. So anyway, just for fun, here’s a quick (I’m condensing and simplifying), lesson on how taxation and wealth work in 2025.

The wealth of the rich lies in their assets—the value of companies they own or stocks they’ve invested in. Those “paper assets” can only be taxed when they’re sold—or, in tax terms, when their intrinsic value is “realized.”

Now instead of selling off (taxable) assets to live, the superrich use those assets as collateral for “securities backed loans” which are nontaxable. Elon Musk, for instance, takes no salary. He uses his ($94 billion) Tesla stock as collateral for loans he uses to fund his lavish lifestyle and provide ready cash as needed.

Mark Zuckerberg, Larry Ellison, Warren Buffett and Jeff Bezos—to name a few billionaires we all know of, take little or no salary—their compensation comes in the form of untaxable stock options they can leverage.

If you think this can’t go on forever, you’re wrong. Even when these billionaires die, the value of assets gained during their lifetimes are immune to taxation. At that point, some assets can be sold by heirs to pay off the outstanding loans, again, without worrying about taxes.

TA DAAAA. Now you know how the rich do it. How they avoid taxes in both life and death, and manage to leave massive fortunes to their heirs.
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Songs for this:
Done Changed My Way of Living by Taj Mahal
Run On by Elvis Presley

We’re in a young-love recession.
Gen Zers are slow to trust and averse to risk,
we have, it seems, a particular social nervousness
about interpersonal exchanges and the symbiosis of love.

So we resort to situationships (undefined relationships),
a stratagem for closeness, with zero commitment.

You can flirt; you can kiss; you can dance.
You can have a crush so big it blots out the stars
You can have transformative romantic encounters
you can care deeply and get hurt badly
you can, in fact, be absolutely wrecked by love
All without ever being in a relationship.

Thank God we’re only young once.
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Songs for this:
Die With A Smile by Lady Gaga & Bruno Mars
Busy Woman by Sabrina Carpenter

It’s Saturday morning. Lisa, Leong and I were in the common area, lazing about. “This is what happened to us (Lisa and I) last night.” I said, beginning to explain last night's trauma to Leong. “We were at the event and it was dead and empty—there was just another couple there. It was made infinitely worse by the gloomy, instrumental, funeral music the on-aux (DJ) was playing. So we went up to him. His headphones were over one ear and off the other.”

“And we were like, ‘Hey, can you play something else? Do something different? Can you please change the hook and play something upbeat—with words?’
“He looked us up and down, dismissively,” Lisa added, touching Leong’s arm to emphasize the point, “then he pulled his other earphone over his previously bare ear to ignore us!

“Because you hurt his feelings,” Leong said.

“No,” I began - I literally, I, like literally don’t understand what he was doing. Being a DJ is customer service, basically. He’s supposed to be making people happy and when two of your four customers complain - you’re supposed to change.”
“You can’t make everyone happy,” Leong suggested, shrugging.
“Is that some kind of dystopian, communist logic?” Lisa asked, shocked (Leong’s from China).
“In America,” she quickly continued, “we try to make the individual happy. He could’ve made half the people in the hall happy - at least the ones that cared enough to engage him.”

“First of all,” Leong began, waving her hands, as if waving away confusion, “the question is - and don’t dodge it - she asked me, “Were you nice? Because you may have hurt his feelings.”
“No, I don’t care,” I said, dismissing ‘feelings.’ “If we’re invited to an event, then our opinions are invited too. it’s like a contract.”
“He might have taken days to plan that playlist.” Leong countered.
“Well, it didn’t matter,” Lisa snarked, “because the funeral was over.”

“Here’s the thing,” Leong said, looking first at Lisa, then at me, “let’s face it, you two aren’t usually ignored, you're both pretty, white, CIS girls—a high society princess, and an upper-crust, trust-fund baby.”
(Oh, she was lashing out over the dystopian crack.)
“Yeah, NO, I.. look, no, you know..” I searched for my words.
Lisa took over, “Look, enough of your divisive, postmodern, race theory crap. These events can only be put on by MEN. Everything here (at Yale) is an EVENT now, with a theme. Girls spend a lot of time getting ready - doing our hair, putting on makeup, picking outfits, for these themes they come up with. It’s like the MET gala out there, where we have to dress to theme every night. Everyone, it seems, has to have a theme. No one wants us to just show up anymore - and they can’t get someone on-Aux to play music with words? The DJ’s just going to play sounds? It’s aggravating when we’ve put in so much effort already.”

“Listen to what you’re say-YING.” Leong said, ‘These events ARE typically put on by MEN, Yale is a male controlled culture - women weren’t even allowed at Yale until 1969. Are men trying to make YOU happy? NO, they’re focused on their happiness.”
“It throws me off that men’s groups, certain guy groups, put these things on,” Lisa reasoned, “because guys barely care about decorations and themes.”
“CAN guys decorate?” I asked, sarcastically—”I mean the straight ones?” I chuckled.

“We put in a lot of effort,” Lisa continued, “We look fantastic and guys just show up, looking the same as ever - what I’m say-ying is - there’s social injustice at work. Last night, it really wasn’t so bad. I mean, people showed up and the DJ eventually got into a vibe, some kind of vibe - whatever. It wasn’t just last night, we’ve been to a LOT of these this year.”

“It’s rife this year, we show up - for what? To be bored?” I updogged, “There’s no music to sing or dance to - and the guys, seriously, they need to take dance lessons or something because they’re bored too—just standing to the side. Girls don’t come to these things to be stared at like circus animals— it’s borderline traumatic. We want to dance and have fun. Uhh! It makes me so angry - and I’m not alone.”
“You’re NOT alone!” Lisa piped in for the sidelines.

“We even tried enlisting the other couple," Lisa said, "asking if they wanted dance music - but they looked like scared freshmen.”
“If I known the host,” I said, “I’d have gone up to them and told them about the music.”
“That wouldn’t be embarrassing?” Leong asked.
“No,” said, “It’s called being honest with your friends and  trying to help.”
“What if..” Leong began, “your musical taste *****.”  “No, it’s not about taste,” I said.
“What if YOU ****!” Leong said. Then, after a second she added, “You ****,” and began chuckling.
“No, no..” I laughed. “YOU ****.” Lisa was heads-up and all ears now—an evil smirk beginning.
“You both ****!” Leong shrieked, swinging the first of many couch pillows wildly.
Queue pillow fight, popcorn fight, dish towel fight, vacuum cleaner fight..
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Songs for this:
Femininomenon by Chappell Roan
Messy by Lola Young
Anxiety by Doechii
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our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list:
Leong, (roommate) 21, a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major,’ is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia - and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). Growing up, I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) we both speak Cantonese (maybe why we were paired?) and we're able to talk a lot of secret trash together.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, (my bff) is a high society princess, who grew up in a 50th floor Central Park South high-rise. She's a (pre-med) molecular biophysics and biochemistry major.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

Our burdens are lifted—it’s spring break, after all.

Though ocean breezes, surf sounds, the smell of sunblock,
fresh tans and bottomless margaritas at the beach can be healing,
we decided to vacation on campus and find joy in small, everyday things.

Yesterday, we went to the farmer’s market, where one coffee vendor was making real cappuccinos and another was baking fresh breakfast pizzas. The combination reminded me of the 'Antico Forno Roscioli' caffe, near Campo de' Fiori, in Rome.

Then we hit the gym pool, climbed a rock wall (slowly) and played racquetball (rather poorly). We tried a dance & fitness class too—I thought I was in shape but ugg, it was hard to keep up. Peter (my 27-year-old bf) practically collapsed, but maybe he was angling for mouth-2-mouth.

Straight brag: Peter and I are getting new laptops today—MacBook Air M4s—mine’s baby blue, his is silver. So today seems like Christmas.
I don’t know if you people have computers, or use the Internet, but if you do, you’ll get it. I don’t know exactly when it’ll arrive, of course, so I’m pacing our suite.

I’ve always loved tech. My brother started teaching me about computers when I was 10—you know—hard drives, logic boards, power supplies, all of it. I remember it taking about two days to set one up and move all of the data. Today all I’ll have to do is set the new computer next to the old one and click migrate.

You gotta doff your hat to the tech wizards that came up with that, but the hours spent doing it the old way were fun.
“Something’s lost yet something's gained” - I think Joni Mitchell sang that.
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Songs for this:
Am I the Same Girl? by Swing Out Sister
Mountain or a Molehill by Kris Berry
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our cast: A reader once asked, “Who are these people?” (a solid question) So now I do a cast list:

Peter, (My bf), is a bearded, 27-year-old from the sage hills of Malibu, California. He’s 6’1, too thin, his jet-black hair is perpetually uncombed and his skin is pale from over exposure to fluorescent lighting. He earned his PhD in Applied Physics last year and now he works for CERN in Geneva. He’s smart, quiet, awkward and he can be too serious. I’m unreasonably cRaZy about this guy.

Your author, a simple, multinational, upper-crust, trust-fund baby from Athens, Georgia who's also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

University midterm periods bring early mornings charged with energy drinks and espresso shots. Evenings are spent trading quizlets in Bass Library or in late night cram sessions in the common room. After several days of stressful testing, midterms suddenly end.

But we’re like those Indianapolis race cars that’ve just run 500 laps, we come off our midterm tracks with our proverbial metal popping and creaking from intense heat and stress. For the first day or so after midterms I can’t sit still. I pace around like I’ve forgotten something—then it sinks in—I can have fun, in fact, it may be mandatory.

My bf Peter is spending spring break with me—for the most part in my dorm room. It’s night two of our 18 romantic days and nights. We spent our first day wending around campus. Peter went here for years—earning his master’s and PhD here. He knows Yale even better than I do—it’s a nostalgia tour for him—he works for CERN in Geneva now (Europe’s most boring city—I think that’s their tourism tagline).

As we lay snuggled in my twin-sized dorm room bed, beneath one of my very freshly laundered sheets, it’s about 41°F and windy. I keep my lattice windows wide open, because I like to sleep cold, with just a sheet. Peter complained once, when he’d first earned sleepover privileges—until I explained the alternatives.

We’ve been dating for over two years now, and I think he’s learned to enjoy it. An arm or a leg left outside the sheet will start to tingle after a minute but the touch of a human hand is like a soothing flame. Snuggles are welcomed and spoonings are almost required for survival.

Looking up and out, we can see the cloudless and deeply azure, New Haven sky. My mind is drifting and lazily unfocused when I realize Peter’s been talking about something.. the search for extraterrestrial life?

I begin to focus on his words, mid sentence. His voice is a low, rumbly, western drawl - think Henry Fonda in some old black & white western.
“.. when SETI’s searching the heavens (for electronic signals), they listen across a sliver of two microwave regions that are unpolluted by radio waves from natural sources.”

My head’s on his chest and I’m listening more to his warm tones than the words. I say, “Mmm-hmm” and snuggle more deeply into his warmth.

“They call these frequencies the ‘water hole,’ because they correspond to hydrogen and hydroxyl wave lengths (key components of water), in hopes that intelligent life will pick these quiet zones for communication.”

I yawn, drawing in air like a gasp and sink deliciously into his slow breathing rhythms. Peter’s a physicist (that’s spelled ‘nerd’) and I can’t say I understand more than a third of his ellipticals, but the next thing I know it’s morning.

His astronomy lesson was a lullaby.
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The Flower Called Nowhere by Stereolab
Stick Figures In Love by Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks
Moby Octopad by Yo La Tengo
If I Didn't Have You (Live) by Tim Minchin