And so, with the passage of time, I have officially embarked on my junior year, a collegiate upperclasswoman, the equivalent of someone who just had their mid-life crisis and is now pretending to move on as if everything is fine. Ah, yes. Everything’s fine. As I sit thinking about how everything is fine and I’m not stressed at all, I contemplate what I’ve accomplished in my first two years at Brown.
My life as a first-year: those were the days! The booger green carpets of first-floor Everett, the hallways littered with toilet paper, pizza, and empty beer cans, the irrational fear that someone was going to scale the building, break in my window, and steal my laptop and my stuffed animals. Good times. It was then that I joined The Rib and began distributing articles to my growing fan base. I think you’ve been sending my fan mail to the wrong box in the mail room, because I haven’t gotten anything yet.
In fact, on my last day of school as a first-year, I got an email that I had mail at the mailroom. I’d never gotten mail before, and I was so excited! I rushed to the mailroom with fellow Ribby Daniella Balarezo. They called my name. I picked up my letter. You know what it was? Of course you don’t, unless you’re Daniella, because she was laughing hysterically. It was the letter that our RPLs made us write to ourselves during orientation. My first mail at Brown was a letter I wrote to myself. At least I had drawn a dinosaur at the bottom.
Sophomore year was when I really started to make changes on this campus, changes that will be remembered for generations. I always stepped on the Pembroke Seal because that’s a sexist superstition, and also because I wanted the attention of fellow classmates as they gasped at my bold behavior. “Who’s that girl stomping on the seal,” I’d overhear in hushed tones. “She looks like that girl who writes for The Rib. We should send her fan mail.”
It was also during sophomore year that I accidentally received someone else’s mail at the mailroom because her name was also Samantha, and for some reason the mailroom people don’t say last names. It was a big box from one of those companies that sends you snacks every month. I thought about keeping it, but worried that this was the other Samantha’s only food source. Sadly, I returned the box. You’re welcome, other Samantha.
As you can see, I’ve clearly done a lot at Brown that has bettered the community. What changes will I make this year? Will I change lives? Will I single-handedly fix climate change? Will I invent a teleportation device? Will I get mail? If I do, I promise to sing the “Mailtime” song from Blue’s Clues. Someone, please send me mail. Please.