28 Nov 15

So after ranting at one of my best friends, bawling my eyes out on the way to class, and going to H-mart to buy some groceries, I found myself, quite strangely, once again at peace. Sure, I had still bombed a quiz, given two bad presentations, failed to impress my professors, and generally made a bad impression of myself to the world at large, but the air was still crisp and the sun was still out, and while walking from Random Hall to H-mart, it occurred to me that the past week really wasn’t worth the angst that I was pouring out over it.

Maybe it was the Thanksgiving spirit, waiting to whisk me away to a night of festivities and the inevitable food coma. Maybe it was Lane G. ’17 and Lillian C. ’17, chattering away about the wonders of 6.004 and all the cabbage they were planning to buy. Maybe it was just me, feeling, as always, too much in too quick bursts that just as quickly disperse like they were never there.

Whatever it was, I now feel compelled to pour out some happy thoughts, because some days really aren’t that bad and I don’t write about those enough.

Despite what appear to be my best efforts to the contrary, I somehow still have friends to be thankful for. There’s Lane, the big lug, who flops around in the kitchen in his ripped, hole-y socks and keeps the fridge stocked with lemongrass despite no one ever using lemongrass for anything outside of mitBEEF. There’s Lilly, who is the complete opposite — who scurries rather than flops and challenges rather than soothes. Victor L. ’17, slouched back in his favorite leather rolling office chair, whose scruffy exterior belies his surprisingly worldly tastes.

Anthony L. ’15, who always apologizes first, and does my laundry and cleans my room when it seems I am too busy to do both.

Ray Hua W. ’16, who consistently catches when my mood is low and asks me if I want to talk.

Clint U. ’16, who always finds me when Doctor Who is involved so we can yell at the screen and watch Peter Capaldi battle monsters together.

William N. ’17, who is inordinately excited about sourdough starter and has a pre-made rant ready for most things.

There’s Clam, my residential bubble of choice, where Adam K. ’16 doles out amusing trivia between bouts of clicking at imaginary monsters and Ian C. ’19 self-deprecatingly assembles snack foods for floor dinner. Bonfire, just one floor up, where William rants about biology as Megan B. ’16 rolls her eyes and Eric M. ’16 plans another showing of Mean Girls. BMF, across the way, where most of the residents from my time have left but the few who remain are still as sassy as ever.

There’s Nina and Michael and the GRTs, who are sometimes responsible adults but often just as ridiculous as everyone else. There’s the TA for my 2.02B class, who always answers Piazza posts as soon as he can.

There’s the anonymous comment on this past Wednesday’s post, written by a kind stranger who felt empathy for a faceless entity on the web. There’s the unnamed Random Hall cruft, who was worried enough about the mindless ranting of an underclassman to ask my house master to step in and see if I was fine.

I’m not going to say I’m okay now, because it’s really hard for me to be okay. The Institvte really sees to that, for all her charms. But I’ve found a little brightness in the world today, in the people that I’ve had the fortune of surrounding myself with, and that’s just going to have to be enough.