I haul myself up the hill to Bulfinch, digging in my pockets to find my BlueCard as I approach the door. When I look up, a mist of fine pollen blinds me… the mob of Performative Males in Fem Lit forming behind me starts to get angry. They take out their pitchforks and start to hurl insults.
Walking down the basement hall, my nose is running, snot is dripping, my eyes are red, and it has begun. When I walk into class, someone shouts at me, “This guy stinks!” I’m late to class at this point, so I end up sitting in the deep, dark corner of the room.
As soon as I sit down, Phase Two begins: The cough. As we start our English discussion, I try to hold it back, but then I start to choke. Out of options, I begin to beatbox the chorus of “All Girls are the Same” by Juice WRLD. The other women in my class are instantly attracted to me. Whilst doing this, I request some Kleenex, and the teacher uses her powerpoint stick to hand them to me. After using two sheets of Kleenex, thinner than my chances of getting a 6 in this class (classic glass ceiling example btw), they ran out, so I resorted to using my worksheets to wipe my snot and tears.
As time passed, the room started to heat up. The guy to my left started taking a few strides to the window, and my neck jerked back. I looked over and, in slow motion, uttered “nooooooo…,” but it was already done. The window opened, and the enemy flew in. I started to cough, and my eyes were redder than the most fried of Knollers.
In a High School Musical fashion, I lifted myself onto my desk and yelled, “FREEDOM.” I danced the night away and used the bookshelf as my oyster. I felt like I was the only one in the room as I serenaded OPP, mowing outside the window. Soon enough, my teacher called on Sykes for backup to deal with my “issue.” As they restrained me, I told them my symptoms, and they asked me if I had a history of having imaginary friends or if I had ever heard voices in my head. Then, I knew where I was headed.
