Courtesy of Flickr
- Welp, with this weird hour and a half between classes, it’s either tabling, answering emails or napping for just long enough to be groggy and disoriented upon waking up.
- Would they hate me if I skipped my tabling shift?
- Yes. Yes, they would.
- Which one of these godforsaken tables is ours? I really should start wearing my glasses more during the day; I can’t see shit. Does that say “SIMPS” or “Shakes”? Does it matter?
- Well, I know none of these people, except the one who sent out the recruitment email. Who are they? Am I hallucinating? Are they spirits of students past who just mysteriously manifest when they need to lure new blood into the club? Do they feed on us?
- I’m mixing my supernatural metaphors. Ghosts don’t feed.
- Maybe they’re immortal vampires, however, who are never seen in the daylight and only communicate via Slack and When2Meet.
- Why does everyone always take the good signs before I get here? What am I supposed to do now, just hover behind the table and cultivate the illusion that we actually have active members? Literally twiddle my thumbs?
- At least there’s music. I mean, it’s always the same playlist of Top 40 bops, but it’s something.
- Would it kill someone to queue up The Killers for a change, though? Lorde? Late ‘90s alt rock? Even Neon Trees.
- All right, shake it out, time to get loud. Brrrr, brrr, mah!
- Yelling at people who do their damnedest to deflect your attention is so cathartic. Why go to therapy when you have awkward bikers frantically trying to evade eye contact?
- God, it takes too much effort to be witty.
- Yes, you, Sir in the Patterned Tie and Converse, I’m calling you out specifically. We both know you’re not gonna stop, but I’ve got to entertain myself somehow.
- Y’know, maybe I’m more extroverted than I give myself credit for.
- Nope, nope, nope, I lied. I can’t carry a conversation more complicated than screaming into the void.
- Why is this person making small talk? Sign the thing and go, please.
- Thanks, man, you’re one of, like, 11 people I’ve interacted with in the last two hours. Mazel tov.
- I SEE YOU, SAM! COME SIGN UP FOR MY THING. I’M GOING TO BRING THIS UP AT BRUNCH TOMORROW. YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME. I HAVE YOUR PHONE NUMBER. GOOD LUCK IN CLASS I LOVE YOU.
- Tag yourself, I’m that redheaded 5-year-old who clearly does not know why he is here or what this campus is.
- How is it this hot? It’s November! The spooky season! The chilly season! The blustery season! I’m wearing a sweater today, like a normal human! Why do you do this, Mother Nature?
- No, wait, this is Persephone’s fault. Well – Demeter’s, technically. Go back to your husband, Persephone, a bitch is getting a sunburn.
- Wait, did I have a reading response due?
- No, it’s Wednesday, I’m Gucci.
- Okay, I must deliberately strategize how to exit. Don’t make me clean up, don’t, this isn’t what I signed up for, don’t do it, don– damn it.
- Curse my people-pleasing disposition.
- That was admittedly not as terrible as I thought it would be. Should I sign up to table next time?
Contact Claire Francis at claire97 ‘at’ stanford.edu.
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