The Eighth Page

Junior Monkey Love

Last Thursday night, I received an email from the desk of Nathan S. Scott ’05. This was very exciting because I never get email, which is why I only check it nine times per hour. But this was no ordinary message from the librarians threatening to confiscate my firstborn son. No, it was a lot funnier than that. The subject line read “Features Assignments.” A Features assignment? This meant publication! This meant thousands of readers! This meant the glory and acclaim of the whole school! This meant world-wide circulation! Okay, so, my parents subscribe. Whether or not The Philippian reaches the far corners of the earth, I had been given brand-new bragging rights. I am one of the first Juniors in Features. My first big assignment read like this- Paz- someone told me you would write, so you’re getting a shot kid. Write about being a freshman girl or something. Upon reading this, my first thought was, “Thanks, Mom.” The second was: “What article can I write that will enable me to meet RANDOM UPPERCLASSMAN BOYS?” I was struck with divine inspiration, inspiration of the same caliber as the whisper from God that prompted Commons to have Cookie Night. I decided to write an article called “My First Parietal!” (Cue loud, revelatory orchestral music or “I Saw The Sign” by Ace of Base) I was pretty happy that I had thought of something to write that wasn’t, y’know, really dumb and junior girl-y. I’m trying really hard here. See, the only name I’ve mentioned is Nate Scott’s (never met him, although I IMed him once), I’ve made no allusions to anybody’s plaid pants, nor have I mentioned any of my Junior girl friends. To do that however, I suppose I would need friends. Just kidding, I’m popular—popular enough to pay only a small bribe to a certain lion-haired buddy of mine for her assistance in finding me a random upperclassman. Once I had handed over my watch, wallet, and Michael Kors stilettos, she threw a facebook in my lap and told me to pick a number. Oh yes, boys and girls, I was in. I was definitely in. Later that night, we made a phone call to my random upperclassman of choice. Let’s call him “Bob,” to avoid embarrassing my kind host. Poor sap. I think I scared him. My uncontrollable devilish giggling usually has that effect on boys, but don’t ask me why. “So,” he said cautiously. “You just want to have a parietal?” “Yeah. For five minutes. I just need to be able to say it happened. It’s for Features.” “Only five minutes? And you won’t put my name in the article, right?” “Five minutes. Only five minutes. I promise.” “He’s so cool,” whispered my accomplice, finishing a bag of my potato chips. “He’s got great clothes.” “Yeah, so –“ Bob continued. “Is this going to be at Nathan Hale?” After I stopped laughing hysterically, I explained to him that were I to bring a male member of the upper classes into my own dormitory, Hale’s huge ball of repressed sexuality would explode, somewhere down in the basement, maybe in the laundry room. I have a certain love for that giant ball of love. When I spoke to Bob, I didn’t call it the “giant munchkin of love.” That’s kind of personal. Let’s keep that between you and me, buddy, you and me. Fast forward to the next day. It was time for me to go meet Casanova at his Casa Del Amor—otherwise known as the dorm that I would like to call, in this article, Not Fuess. I have other names for it as well, such as, “Definitely Not Fuess.” When I’m feeling particularly affectionate, I’ve been heard to call it “I SWEAR TO GOD, NOT FUESS!” Hey, I’m not mean. I’m just kidding. I know guys in Fuess… like the house counselor. It was pretty funny watching my new friend The Upperclassman try to explain why he was having a parietal with a Junior: “SHE HAS TO WRITE A FEATURES ARTICLE! WE’VE NEVER MET, I SWEAR!” He was pale in the face. I almost felt bad for him. Anyway, the parietal itself did not live up to its reputation. When I asked Bob what people do during these things he said, “Uhhhh…. Crazy monkey love?” Be assured: none was had. He showed me his house plants. I managed to insult his favorite band (playlistism: discrimination of others based on iTunes playlists shared over a network. See: iPod Envy.), his clothes (the piles on the floor were molding, OK?) and his girlfriend (It was probably a bad picture. I did tell him that she wouldn’t look like an ARC buddy in real life), all in the space of the allotted five minutes. Actually, it was more like three. I bolted out of there before I did any truly permanent damage. Except for that laptop, I’m sure I didn’t break anything. The main thing I can conclude about my little expedition out of the Knoll is that boys’ dorms are so much cooler than Nathan Hale. The postwar architecture of my dormitory leaves something to be desired, such as walls. The whole exposed-metal look gets a little tiresome after the third tetanus scare. I’ve spoken to OPP and they say if I’m really good, I can have a door. They don’t do the “privacy” thing here, exemplified by the all-glass common room. Very cute, to say the least. [Editor’s Note: This is all said in jest! OPP guys, we love you, we know how hard you work, and we thank you.] It’s been a crazy couple of paragraphs, man. First parietal, first Features article, first missed deadline. Damn, it feels good to be a Junior.