Flashback three weeks: Finals were over and I still had three days left in my dorm. Life was grand. The mods threw down every night, my meal plan runneth over and imaginary cartoon birds were landing on my shoulders and chirping duets with me. (Finals week messed with my sanity, hence why I started hallucinating birds like Cinderella. Don’t worry about it.)
Next thing I know, I’m ripped from my lovely delusional bubble in Chestnut Hill and carelessly dumped back into the miserable world of 9 to 5 data entry in Worcester, Massachusetts. Oh cruel world, why me?
Don’t get me wrong, because I do actually like my job. I’m a rare books cataloguer at the American Antiquarian Society, a private research library that specializes in pre-1876 material. I get to play with old books and leave work every day covered in paper cuts and book rot—any English majors’ dream!
Most of the time I don’t get to work with fun stuff, but that’s just because I’m supremely unqualified for the job. My coworkers all have their Masters’ in Library Sciences and real adult lives, while I show up on vacations as the token lovable youngster with stories about poor decision making in college. So I mostly get to catalogue boring pamphlets.
Sometimes I do work with fun stuff though, (Brace yourself, we probably have different definitions of the word “fun.”) like a medical textbook printed for the Homœopathic Medical Society of New York in 1869. Sounds fascinating, right?
Moral of the story: if I ever try convincing you I have any usable medical knowledge or that I am qualified to mend, stitch, bandage or even kiss your booboos, don’t believe me. As the wise Barney Stinson once said, “Don’t ask me. I’m not a doctor.” I probably read about it in a 19th century book that suggested I leech you to prevent ulcers or something along those lines.
As chipper as I am attempting to sound about all of this, let’s be real. The working world outside of Boston College is a sad, sad place full of sad, sad cubicles and sad, sad desktop PCs.
Holla’ at my Windows ’97 desktop, sans Internet connection. My boss doesn’t trust me enough to give me the Internet, but you’ll all be happy to know that Minesweeper is alive and thriving even in this age of Candy Crush and Temple Run.
I miss my happy campus full of beautiful people. I miss those dirty, ugly housing projects we call Mods. I miss Intstagramming pictures of Gothic architecture at will. I miss my RA and the cookies she used to bake my roommates and me. I miss (dare I say it?) Lower. It’s been three long weeks without Aster’s Blazing Bowls and I don’t know if I will survive much longer. Does Lower deliver? More importantly, does Late Night deliver?
So this summer, my blog is dedicated to this most incurable of ailments: BC Separation Anxiety. We will all suffer from it at one point over the next **GULP** 3.5 months. We may as well suffer together. Especially when we have to endure looking at the Facebook photos posted by the fortunate souls with on-campus summer housing. Guys, stop rubbing it in. BC is calling out to me through your pictures like:
True story: I had to be physically stopped from driving in to Boston on Friday night when a friend and I were aimlessly moping around Worcester in search of Italian food. Sometimes I’m overdramatic about things if you haven’t noticed. But, as the wise Paris Jackson once tweeted:
Just be thankful I didn’t eat myself and instead took out my sadness on some Eggplant Parm.
Most importantly, I’ll be back in September. I pity the fool who chose to study abroad in the fall. You, my friend, need this blog. Of course, you’ll probably be yucking it up come Marathon Monday next year when I’m sadly watching the festivities from afar via Twitter, but for now I win.
Even so, it’s going to be a long Mod-less summer. See you all for some more well-intentioned commiseration next week.
Featured image by Alex Krowiak/Gavel Media