It was a classic spring quarter Sunday: I woke up in a random bed on ‘66 block with nothing but my socks, a raging migraine, and a “man”. Our collective stench was comprised of Marlboro Reds, B.O., and regret. As I reached for my phone that was lost somewhere in the sea of cum-stained navy sheets, I realized that I must have left my dignity at home.

After a few minutes of contemplating joining the church, I scrambled around on the sticky floor for my barely-there party outfit from the night before. In my mini skirt that rode up my ass and a “Fall Rush ‘23” t-shirt that I’d stolen from my victim, I crept out of the cave coated with posters of sexy women and tiptoed over the empty Pacifico bottles left on the floor. I stepped into the daylight and began my journey home.

The crowd of onlookers at Cajé was typical. The sorority girls with their slicked-back “morning after” look traveled in packs. My obvious walk-of-shame outfit and smeared eyeliner didn’t bring me shame before the usuals.

However, everything changed when I crossed through Pardall tunnel. Like exiting the birth canal and facing a room full of doctors, I came into the light of campus to see the worst possible sight: a high school tour. I made eye contact with a group of horrifying 15 year-old girls.

Suddenly, I had tunnel vision. My ears rang. I had my Kill Bill moment as the pack of girls stared me down. They wore flared low-rise jeans and Sambas. Their hair was littered with 500-dollar highlights. They looked suspiciously mature, but still had braces for some reason.

I somehow disappeared from UCSB and was transported to my kitchen, where I ate baby carrots alone after freshman year homecoming rather than being invited to the popular kids’ afterparty. The flashback was visceral, like my own little Christmas Carol. I understood Vietnam veterans at that moment because there’s no way that Vietnam was as bad as that. 

I came back to consciousness as I passed the tour. I looked (and smelled) like I had been dead for 10 days. Since when do high schoolers have perfect skin? Since when do they wield Longchamp bags instead of backpacks? Since when am I, a barely legal, sexy woman, supposedly looked down upon by these little virgin teenagers who probably won’t even get into this school? Why do they scare me so much?

I stared at my feet like Charlie Brown while Lucy and Linus tracked my every move with their L’Oréal Sky High Mascara-caked eyes. The girls shared snarky whispers amongst themselves while I slinked by like that Toy Story dog. 

As I snuck by Storke Tower and eventually fobbed my way into the safety of my dorm, I reflected on the traumatic experience that I had just had. Was this God’s was of punishing me for being a skank? Or was I helping these girls to see their future? They might be young and glowing now, as I once was in my youth, but I suppose there comes a point in every woman’s life where she looks in the mirror and sees a sunken, cigarette-stained old hag.

Joseph R. Biden is channeling ‘Sleepy Joe’.