LOW RISE 6—In the midst of a panic attack, my mother called me Friday night. I stifled ugly sobs in my pillow and responded, “Hey mom! What’s up?” with the vocal control of an opera singer. As she dished about the dog’s new medication and her petunias withering, I thought about what it would be like to float lifeless and peaceful in outer space with no homework and responsibilities.
She asked me about my classes and I answered, “Lovin’ life! I’m best friends with my professors!” with expertly feigned sincerity. Little did she know, I had failed so many prelims I was considering building a rocket to hurl myself into the sun.
Hello. My name is Francine Fiddelmeschitz, and I’d like to nominate myself for Best Actor at the 90th Academy Awards. I’m not quite sure how the Oscars work, but if I open my laptop to look up the answers one more time, I will literally crumble into ashes.
Signing off, my mother told me she loves me and is so impressed I’m making the most of college. I responded with a “Love you, too” so breathtakingly it would make Meryl Streep shit herself.
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