Nobody Remembers My Name

Nobody remembers my name. And I will never forget the names of frat boys who say, “I know I have met you, like, five times, but, what’s your name again.” Am I that forgettable? Yes. And I know this may or may not have something to do with me never saying things like, “OMG you are so funny” while lightly stroking their arm. It’s disturbing when you get this because you then proceed to embarrass yourself by remembering their name. I know my memory will pay off in the real world. The real world! The twenties! The purgatory decade of your life, as my mother likes to say.

Being in survival mode since returning to college after study abroad is exhausting. I think exhausting is the right word. I am anxious (medication!) and constantly missing England. Just look up the five stages of grief. Mammy (2002 Mercury Sable Station wagon) keeps me company on my sulky drives around Stockton where, every Friday, I go shopping at Goodwill to ease the pain. A little retail therapy at a thrift store calms my aching, cheap-Jew heart.

Most of my classes are training me to be a Central Valley boujie (urban dictionary informed me of the correct spelling and also my new favorite phrase). Something which causes an adverse reaction to the thought of carrying around a fake Louis Vuitton (I own the backpack version from Thailand) and wearing dress slacks (scratchy and not breathable).

The new me is back in my old life. Eating at chain restaurants (Wild Wings, newly built in the Target parking lot!) and trips to Forever21 are the way of life. Super.


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