Question: Before I went to sleep, my parents had excitedly called to tell me that they had booked plane tickets and hotel rooms for Stanford Parent’s Weekend. They are pretty conservative people, so I was afraid of having to bear their judgments on dorm life; in fact, I was so anxious, that I had a nightmare about it as I fell asleep.
The dorm of my dreams is a particularly seedy place that bumps dubstep at all hours of the day. The walls were shaking as my parents shook their heads disapprovingly, asking how I got any homework done. They lectured me for what seemed like hours on what I was doing wrong, and their voices were tuned with the heavy bass of the dubstep. I encouraged them to go into Palo Alto for dinner so that they would stop, but right as we were about to leave, the door of my room dramatically opened.Along came a boy from my dorm who is known in reality for his Bacchanalian pursuits. Bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, he also reeked of weed and offered my shocked parents some. Then he projectile vomited all over the room, laughed, and ran away.My parents were outraged. They took me by the hand and marched to an unmarked office in Tressider Union, pressing me to transfer to the University of Notre Dame. I remember feeling horrified that I would have to leave Stanford, but I accidentally signed the transfer papers in the midst of my anxiety. Suitcases appeared in my hands as I walked down Palm Drive for the very last time.Thankfully, I woke up – but Parent’s Weekend hasn’t happened yet, so let’s hope that this wasn’t prophetic.
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