What a quarter this has been. From late nights ripping my hair out behind a bookshelf in Core, to late nights ripping my hair out in the corner of the quiet section in Mudd, I truly feel like I’ve reached the limit of what I’m going to accomplish at Northwestern. This has all brought me to one conclusion: I could die and nothing on this campus would change.

If I got rolled over by a steam roller, I’d just be another speed bump. If I jumped off the top of Kellogg, I’d just be an avant-garde 2-dimensional art installation outside the entrance. If I slipped on ice and cracked my head on the pavement, my “in-memoriam” issue of the Daily Northwestern would be used for paper mâché.

I came to Northwestern (and requested Bobb) hoping to learn what “backshots” were, but the only experience with backshots I’ve had here are when I get fucked by back-to-back midterms.

Still, I thought I’d at least get to meet fun new people when I came here. Instead, nobody seemed to want to discuss the ongoing socio-economic issues Native Americans experience that we all learned about from One Book, One Northwestern when we all read the book over the summer. We all read it, right? RIGHT?

So, I’m starting to realize maybe Northwestern isn’t the social capital of the Midwest I was hoping it was going to be. Yet, I still don’t think that should mean I get my only interaction from the AI-chatbot I made for myself. Even he is telling me I’m just being a little punk-ass bitch. I created him! I’m his God! People used to sacrifice others to their gods, and mine just calls me “chudjak”!

So yeah, lately I’ve been feeling like if I died, nothing on this campus could change. Or maybe this is just all from those weird pills Comandante Schill gave me behind Kellogg.