The situation is this, readers:
I’m currently on day one of my week-long break from school, which should be great because it was a hard month; I strived harder to become a better person, I made some startling realizations, achievements were made, friendships forged, blah blah blah. But, I have a problem. I fear I am going to starve.
Actually, let’s backtrack real quick, all the way to last summer vacation. So, after the curtain fell on my very first year of college, I headed home with the stars in my eyes and a song in my heart (Freshman Ashley had a penchant for showtunes, bless her soul). After losing 10 pounds the first month back without any kind of exercise (Me and physical activity are antithetical to one another. Remember my post about being sore after playing one lackluster game of badminton? Yeah, it’s like that.) I quickly realized something: my body was going into crisis mode from the loss of the caf. In the caf, your wildest culinary dreams come true three times a day, with little to no effort on your part. In my house, I have to get out of my bed, walk the 20 feet to my kitchen, find the food, prepare the food, eat the food, clean up the mess from the food, and then shuffle back to bed. No. No thank you. So I lost all that weight because I, being in that lazy summer mindset, just didn’t want to put the work into eating as much as I did at school. It was a tragic turn of events, I assure you.
Which brings us back to right now. I’m sitting on my bed, starving. The only thing I’ve eaten is a pack of questionable fruit snacks in the shape of Scooby-Doo characters (and even after eating that, I had to do taxes and worry about mortgages and 401Ks just to reaffirm my status as an adult to my cat). My parents are gone, so I can’t do my usual “I’m your child/look at your child/your child is hungry/do something” shtick in order to guilt them into providing for their youngest daughter. My life is so hard sometimes, readers, let me tell you.
So, in order to live vicariously through my memories, let’s talk about the caf some more.
If I was there instead of in my current predicament, I might be standing in line to get whatever the main line was serving. It’d probably be something amazing and comforting. With mashed potatoes. Seriously. I swear we have mashed potatoes with everything. Turkey? How about some mashed potatoes with that. Pasta? How about some mashed potatoes with that. Mashed potatoes? How about some mashed potatoes with that. Not that I am complaining. I’m an Idahoan through and through, so of course I am not going to turn down potatoes.
Or I could have just put in my order at the grill for a turkey burger or chicken tenders. The grill people are pretty great. They take the time to learn your name, which is something my own mother has yet to do (almost two decades in, readers, she’ll get it eventually). Same with the people at the sandwich station. They are always so nice.
There’s Global, with its spicy, foreign food that my delicate dietary disposition cannot really tolerate too often (but, God help me, I still try). Or its neighbor across the way, the Pizza nook (not its official name, but it’s pretty fitting as they serve pizza and occupy a nook-look area), with crazy flavor combinations that are sure to confuse, yet delight, your taste buds.
Ugh. I regret talking about all this food. Now I’m even hungrier and, despite the fact that I can literally see it from my bed, the fridge feels like a thousand miles away. If I don’t write back soon, assume I have succumbed to starvation. Don’t let them make a crappy Lifetime movie out of my story, readers. Or do, but make sure I’m played by Emma Stone (or, go with me on this one, Steve Buscemi).
-Ashley A. Miller
P.S. The picture attached to this post is the only friend I have in this hellish ordeal, my cat.
Ashley is a sophomore Creative Writing major from Payette, Idaho.