I swear I didn’t do anything illegal.” I watched a gaggle of sorority girls squawk and take photos with a Bucc-ee the Beaver statue and I came to the conclusion that they were clones because they literally looked like the same person. I almost bought a cookbook. I realized that if a zombie apocalypse ever broke out, Buccee’s is obviously the place to turn first. The only downside would be that someone could make all the gas explode but, you know, it’s whatever. I started my period and considered smearing blood everywhere in a fit of rage. I blame that thought completely on the estrogen and the gunshot-like cramps ricocheting through my uterus. I sat on a toilet for two of the
six hours watching Naruto on
my phone, terrified that I would
somehow catch herpes through my
clothing because I have a very basic understanding of how diseases work.
I tried to make something out
of the toilet tissue but that sadly
ended in a ball of crumpled dreams. I had to leave the bathroom
because my foot magically f lew off of the patterned tile and into the porcelain throne, drenching my
socks with toilet water. It was the
highlight of my day. I seriously considered running down the main aisle wearing a cape made of toilet tissue yelling, “I AM WOMAN. HEAR ME ROAR.” I sang along to various songs out
loud to various degrees of horrified stares. At one point I realized that I was severely hungry but only had $3.78 to my name. It looked like the only answer to my problems was to either prostitute myself for a bag of Cheetos or become consumed by my hunger. So, I bought a bag of peach rings, ate them and made myself sick. I make great decisions. As I was buying the peach rings and leaving the cash register, I said, “Thank you.” The gracious cashier replied, “Thank you.” I replied, “You too,” and proceeded to plunge into a pit of despair. I sat down and drew the Buc-ee’s logo and realized that the original design is horrendous. I perfected it, and can now call myself a true artist. I went to the parking lot to have a staring contest with my car. I lost. I contemplated driving my car into the Bucc-ee’s because it would make it a much more authentic road trip. I don’t think my insurance would have covered that. I played license plate bingo and punch buggy by myself. I ended up punching myself harder than expected and an internal argument ensued. My road trip in Bucc-ee’s allowed me to arrive at the realization that I am incapable of basic human interaction. If we aren’t talking about gender roles, racial inequality, Naruto or food, we ain’t got shit to talk about.
if it’s the MSG or my parched throat but before I can help it I say, “Girl, you know better than that.” They leave shortly after. 5:30PM- Is there a class all new age mothers take that teaches them how to make a baby sling out of a head scarf? I’ve seen at least 5 today and it seems like a universal survival technique I should know how to do. 6:04PM- There is a family here with two teenage sons. I wonder where they’re from because the younger one has 2010 Bieber hair and he doesn’t seem embarrassed about it. Maybe they don’t have the internet. 6:12PM- My waiter has been glaring at me from a distance for about an hour now. I think he decided not to bring me anything to drink as a form of resistance. I debated explaining my situation to him but my thirst is getting real and I’d rather just leave. 6:30PM- I feel terrible. I’m back home now and I feel like survivor of some sort of weird capitalist Hunger Games where the only thing that gets murdered is my affinity for Asian cuisine. By Imani McGarrell
By Mikala Everett
IF YOU BULL RUSH THE STAGE... You saw James Franco performing at a concert and decided that a true Franco fan wouldn’t be constricted by societal norms, so
you decide to bull-rush the stage. You jump in front of the cameras, f lash them and scream ‘HEY MOM,’ despite the fact that your mom thinks MTV2 is something the doctors insist that you get vaccinated against even though there’s no mention of invasive
public health in The Constitution. Securit y tackles you. They turn you over to the cops, and you spend the rest of Spring Break in jail. Game Over.
MARCH 2016
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