Dude, cultists are so awful.
Double-speak, indirect action,
All this horrid pageantry.
The intelligence is so lacking,
The feebleness so evident.
Not only in the strength of their arguments
But by the content of its body.
Frankenstein & the monster.
Very stupid.
Arrogant, ignorant?
Yep.
Short-sighted, unintelligible?
Absolutely.
It would stun to think
If it weren't so simplistic.
To take such a reductionist view
On things so complex,
I do understand that need for you.

Baseless threats
And poor attempts at intimidation.
Meek control
Where everything is construed as favor.
Cannibals,
Obsessed with their palate & others' flavors.
Barbarians,
Bastardizing the words of others.

But to run with it
After you understand it,
You're a ******* imbecile.
To not build upon it
But to take it as gotten:
You don't get anything.
It shows.

There’s a farmers market near campus.
A young couple has a pizza oven on a trailer.
They make a breakfast pizza - bacon, mozzarella
some egg and green peppers. It’s SO crispy and delicious.
ALL I had to do this morning was say “breakfast pizza!”
and six of us were ready to head out fifteen minutes later.

Let’s wax poetic, shall we?

There are some young ladies who live in a dorm
sometimes it seems like they only have studies
but once and a while on a Saturday or Sunday
if we have our druthers, we get out, in swarm
and find ourselves some pizza-like brekkie.
.
.
Songs for this:
PIZZA by Oohyo
Le Breakfast Club de Paris by Gabrielle Chiararo

There’s a lot of heat when all eight
of us suite-mates get together.
I might have mentioned it somewhere.
We’re like surround sound,
eight car alarms going off together,
it’s jabberwocky by an established team.

It can get frantic and maybe frightening
for the uninitiated or inhibited.
Some of us are pretty boy-crazy
and there’s a mix-in of twinkling girl-crazy too.
We’re basey, bugzee, spaceheads and freaks,
yeah, we're the whole emotional spice rack.

“She’s a good person to **** time with,”
is pretty high praise around here
because we have so little free time.
But these are good people to **** time with.

And we’re portable, we travel, we invade,
we’re crazy young women who’ve got it made.
So if you’re coming at us, trying to enter our enclave,
you better be brave or a situational upgrade.
.
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Songs for this:
No New Friends (feat. Sia, Diplo & Labrinth) by LSD
Lysergic Bliss by of Montreal
Freedom Is Free by Chicano Batman
.
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slang…
basey = a cool loser, nice but a bit odd, a ****** with style
bugzee = slightly crazy
spaceheads = people who talk about weird things

I’m standing in the common room, turning in circles. I’ve so many things to do, all at once, I can’t figure out which way to jump. A time management problem, I suppose, maybe I should have taken that 1 credit
‘project management’ class I sloughed off. We live and we learn.

Leong was sitting, leg crossed on the red corduroy couch reading.
“Can you do me a favor?” I asked her sweetly (a poker player would call that a ‘tell’).
“I can’t get involved,” she replied, not even looking up, “I have my own problems.”
I thought for a second, “What problems do you have?” (We talk, I know ALL of her problems.)
“Internal problems,” she said, “the kind you can’t see.”
“I need to take a lab tonight, so I can go to a secret society meeting tomorrow,” I confessed, “can I swipe your ID, when I put my laundry in the dryer, so it notifies you to pick it up?”

“You’re telling me about a secret meeting?” she asked, finally looking up, “AND, you’re asking me to get your laundry?“ she added devilishly, “Is it because I’m Chinese? THATs racist.”
“Ok” I laughed, “that was funny,” I congratulated her, “I hadn’t thought of THAT.” She fairly preened at the complement. “WELL?” I followed up, giving her a head-tilt.
“On the hook,” she said, meaning her ID was hanging on the 3M scotch fastener by her door.
“Thanks,” I said, “you’re a lifesaver—a cherry lifesaver—I updogged.” I’d finally found a direction.
“Zong gwai,” she mumbled, turning back to her book.
*Zong gwai (Cantonese) literally means "encounter a ghost," but the colloquial meaning is "**** right."

As I walked up science hill to the extra lab. I was so tired, it felt like I fell asleep between each step, but every step jarred me awake—it was like a child playing with a light switch.
As I got up near the main entrance, there were these two guys I don’t know standing around.
“Hey there,” one of them said. At first I thought he was going to ask for something innocuous, like directions but he broke into a smirk and I realized this was some kind of catcall and I took an angle away from him.

When I first started school, three years ago, you’d get catcalled once or twice a week, at most, but it seems like it’s more frequent now, three or four times a week (roommates compare notes) like some barrier is breaking down. What nomenclature would you use, for a catcalling guy? Most of ours are unfavorable.

There were other people around, so I wasn’t worried about him—still, he stepped towards me—smirking.
“Are there any other mediocre men where you come from?” I inquired across the distance, still angling away.
“Who said I’m mediocre?” he asked, but his smirk slipped and he stopped moving. I was 20 feet from the door.
“If I’m gonna bouncy with someone,” I shared sarcastically, “it has to be done with authenticity.”
“My GPA is solidly in the median,” he admitted, with a half chuckle, as I crossed the center point of our arch.
“I’m sure you’re being your best self,” I assured him, as the automatic doors to the lab opened and I entered, shaking my head to myself.
.
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Songs for this:
When Did We Stop by New Move
Stopping a Garden Hose With Your Thumb by The Narcissist Cookbook
.
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Our cast:
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.

Your author, a simple country girl from Athens, Georgia is also a molecular biophysics and biochemistry major (pre-med).

I just finished Face Timing with Sunny, one of Lisa and my roommates.
She’s an edgy half-a-laugh, and I can’t wait to see her in person.
Sunny’s a slipa and seductive gadabout - this poem is about her summer:

She’s a treacherous lover whose infidelities could populate
a city of confessions. Apparently, the streets we ignorantly
travel, are crowded with immediate, sordid, physical wants.

And Sunny, she can see them, like blinking neon bar lights,
feel them, like radio waves the rest of us monkeys miss.

Does she ****** the Waffle House waitress (in the restroom),
the professor (in the closet), the Urban Outfitter salesgirl
(dressing room), the dental receptionist (supply room),
the bar girl who rejects everyone else that hits on her
(backroom), or do they ****** her?

“How do you know?” I asked her once.
“I know,” she said, nonchalantly purring like a big, Serengeti cat after a ****. Now, you might ask - it’s legit - how do I know these trysts are real?

Well, at school, she brings a different girl to her room almost every night.
They pass through our common area quietly, on the way to her room.
And, like you and all of us - she carries a camera - and uses it.
Her cloud archive is an ******, deep dive into a hidden America.

Flipping through it leaves me breathless, and I’m not fem-facing.
If she sold it to ‘The Getty’ they’d have to open a new wing.
.
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Songs for this:
i wanna be your girlfriend by girl in red [E]
Lava by Still Woozy
.
08.16.2:30p

I’m sorry we can’t start the morning
- I’m still stretching and yawning.
Oh, give me a skibidi break,
why’d you wait to snake me awake?
Anyway, you know not to bother me
unless you’ve brought coffee.
You can’t just insist we have to leave -
I haven’t even brushed my teeth!
I’d love to join in your drama
but I’m still in my pajamas.
Can you give me a quarter hour?
I’ve really got to take a shower.
We aren’t back in school,
who says there are rules?
You know, summer loses its charm
when you have to set an alarm.
Does running late count as exercise?
.
Kamala Harris! I’m SO hyped.
I guess Yale’s (5 member) Alpha Kappa Alpha ladies get to reify their nang now.
.
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Songs for this:
Mr. Blue Sky by Electric Light Orchestra
I Remember the Sun by XTC

It’s monsoon season here in New Haven,
gone, are the banked, fluorescent colors of sunset.

This feeling hit me, like a rogue wave.
“We have to go out tonight,” I announced, to no one in particular.

I think I’d hit my capacity for monotony.
Lisa looked up from her book.

“The moment has to happen,” I continued,
with an animal-like awareness of the immediate,

“For the ****** ****** imaginary
and as something to cherish in backward gaze.”

“I’m for that.” Lisa shrugged, almost indifferently - she was used to my purple prose.
“I’m buying,” I announced, to no one in particular.

“Then let’s DO this thing!” Sunny called-out from her room.
“Where are we going?” Leong asked, poking her head out of her room.

—-

I took an m-cat practice test earlier today.

In the dorm, before breakfast and the test, I was staring in the mirror.
“Hey you, where ya been—how ya been?” I asked myself.
I followed up with, “Are you ready for this—are you up for this?”
Lisa stuck her head in the bathroom, “Psyching yourself up?” she asked.
She’d be taking the test later too.

—-----

The tests took about 6 hours. I’ve taken the downloadable ‘practice tests’ but not strictly on-the-clock. There’s just something about sitting at that official, green terminal - on an uncomfortable plastic chair, being timed by officiously grim and callously indifferent bureaucrats. (#chefskiss)

I felt like the young, haunted governess in ‘The Turn of the *****’ by Henry James. Except my ghosts were my entire, immediate family - who’ve taken this test before me and done really well.
My mom’s apparition hovered over my shoulders - making a snarky noise when I picked certain answers.
My spectral brother sat by a window, feet-up on the desk in front of him, boredly checking his watch.
My intangible sister sat at an empty terminal, as if she too, were taking the tests, and finally Step (my stepfather’s doppelgänger) ghosted in, like a Spielberg effect, through the closed classroom door, periodically, to voice his support.
The place seemed positively crowded.

I got a 507 (out of a possible 528), in the 76th percentile (they said). Not good enough (yet).
I’ll take the real test in July (sigh).

(There’s a song for this: ‘Confessions’ by Sudan Archives)

I remember it like it was yesterday (it was yesterday).

I arrived on a cool (42°f), blindingly sunny New Haven afternoon. It was as if they’d opened up that troubling ozone hole just for me.
I was as happy as I’ve ever been to be back. It was as if New Haven actually meant freedom.

I’d opened the door to our suite, dragging every bag I own.
After intense hugs, I'd said, “PIZZA - NOW.”
So, Lisa, Sunny and I, after some debate, selected Town Pizza.
Town Pizza’s specialties are those thin, gourmet pies with crust-free cauliflower crust, oil (not environmentally problematic tomatoes), topped with panda cheese and tofu.
In a shocking development, I got the cheeseburger special which I hit like a vape. †

SO, the three of us were there, happily devouring. Not bothering anyone, when this guy stopped at our table to offer us salvation and introduce us to - whatever (yadda yadda yadda)

I didn’t catch the entire pitch; I may have momentarily dozed off.
“No, Thank you.” Lisa said, politely but dismissively.
Not taking the hint, he reached into his cheap shoulder bag for pamphlets and began a new tac.
“Go away.” Sunny said, unblinkingly, but he jabbered on, showing the unaware persistence of long covid - like we were interested or tolerant.

“I’ll show you my bra if you’ll shut up,” I said, with my best deadpan face. Lisa and Sunny shrieked with several kinds of outraged laughter.
He became a statue, like a Twilight Zone episode where time stops for one person. A second passed during which he didn’t blink or breathe. “eheheheheheheh* I toned, like a buzzer.
“Two late!” I gameshow said, shrugging, “You didn’t verbally accept, sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
He shook his head and walked away—with Lisa and Sunny giggling and waving him off stage.
Our mission was accomplished. We’d defended our water hole like lionesses.

A few minutes later Lisa said, “He DID shut up, I’m not in law school, but I think you owe him a flashing.”
“I guess he wasn’t in law school either.” Sunny observed, between bites.
“I’m taking this to the supreme court,” I promised.
“How did the supreme court get to decide every ******-little thing?” Lisa asked, biting her abomination flavored pizza.
.
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slang and notes…
devouring = eating like barnyard animals
Twilight Zone = More, so much more, than the most creative moment in man’s evolution. *
panda cheese = Ok, I made that up because it sounded gross.
† the author, in no way, endorses vaping, vape-related consumables or accessories

Lisa and I wrap and rap for Christmas.
Can you imagine the two of us doing that?

We’ve got Christmas playlists going
Christmas scented candles glowing,
a tinctured but milky hot-chocolate flowing.

“Stir the marshmallows with the candy canes,”
Lisa says, like that’s something she had to explain.

We’re humming, singing and laughing,
and dancing because we’re happy.

We’re dashing to finish our wrapping,
we can’t have our suitemates catching
us executing the plans we’re hatching
to surprise them with gifts, enchanting.

The paper’s exotic, delicate and glittery
bought at Boyars Gifts, in New York City.
Why do the scissors keep getting lost?
Getting low on scotch-tape - we’ve used a lot.

We’ll be putting them, sneakily, under the tree
where they’ll add glamor and tease to our festivities.

I love the lights of the season - I love giving gifts.
For me, playing Santa is as good as it gets.
.
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(BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: tinctured: mixed with alcohol)

In numerology twelve has special meanings - they’re twelve days of Christmas, twelve months in a year, and Taylor Swift’s had twelve number-one albums. All we care about at Yale, are the twelve days until Thanksgiving break. This semester has seemed as long as waiting in line at the DMV, or holding one's breath under water.

My roommates and I are like family, heck, we spent last summer together. The combinatorics of eight girls bonding as tightly as we have are redorkulous. We’re not Disney-family, of course, at times there seem to be too many noisy, unruly, competitive and occasionally combative kids in the car and university life has its unforgiving undercurrents too.

Success can seem fleeting, to students at the top levels academically - as fleeting as the last quiz - and in this environment, where every paper is expected to be unique and brilliant, the stresses are multiplied. We’ve been told, since we were six, how important grades are, we’ve slaved tirelessly to master our numbers and letters and we’re continuously and rigorously evaluated, as we ascend our various academic ladders.

All the while, ticking and bomb-like, is the knowledge that there are only ‘X’ number of seats in med-schools, law-colleges and associates hired on wall street. The result is, we can be wounded, deeply, by a red pencil mark or the most casual, conversational inflection of a professor.

We’re told that there are general subjects to avoid - like money and religion - I’d add grades to that list. While there’s nothing like the euphoria and pride that comes from being effective, the truth is, universities are elaborate competitions where winners, losers and future opportunities turn, to a large degree, on grades.

I’m in my dorm-room, hunched over my laptop like a miser counting her gold. I’m going over my grade spreadsheet and giggling, quietly, with delight. Lisa comes up behind me, like a ninja, “What are you giggling about?” she asks, leaning over my shoulder to see my laptop.

I jumped, guiltily, like a teenager caught surfing ****, and pressed the screen-lock button, in mindless reflex. “JeeSUS!” I gasped, turning towards her in laughing irritation, “don’t DO that!”
“Oh,” she said, “you HAVE to show me now,” moving in even closer.

I unlocked the display with a sigh and my fingerprint. She scooped up my laptop - not waiting for permission or explanations. Her eyes swept the spreadsheet like a bitcoin miner and after a second, she asked, “You made this?”

“Yeah,” I said, with pride, adding, “‘Melon’ helped,” (lest I lie and take all the credit). Melon’s an ex-roommate of my bf who’s got several PhDs in math (One in ‘computational mathematics’, a second in ‘mathematical modeling’ and he’s working on a third in ‘decision sciences').
“Clean,” she said, scrolling it up and down and chewing on her bottom lip. “Why were you hiding it?” She asked, handing the computer back.
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “grades can be radioactive.”
She nodded, understanding and asked, “Can I get a copy?”
“Sure,” I said, saving it and forwarding a copy to her. The little Mac made a ‘whoop’ sound.

Roommates should share everything.