Line-jumping (the act of moving ahead of someone in the lunch line) is not illegal. It’s not forbidden or, as Zach puts it, “cheating”. If I want one item from the array of food and there’s a line of twenty people, believe me, I will skip ahead to get it. It’s not morally wrong. It’s not taboo. It’s survival of the fittest. I’m perfectly content with moving ahead of others, and they should be too.

In fact, I propose a new food-gathering strategy. Instead of attacking food from the side, we should attack it from the front. That way, we won’t have to stand in twenty-person lines to pick up our food—we can just walk up to it, scoop it up and go.

Unfortunately, some people don’t approve of this approach.

“Excuse me,” I said to the girl in front of me. “I’m just going to get some mashed potatoes.”

“Well, honey, I’ve been in this line—”

I kind of tuned her out and scooped up my mashed potatoes.

“Would you like some?” I asked.

“No.”

I shrugged and walked away.

Ugh.

Maybe next time I won’t get so lucky. Maybe a giant food fight will initiate because of my line-jumping tendencies and the mashed potatoes will end up in my hair and then I’ll throw food back and other people will join in and it’ll be like one of those scenes from the Disney Channel movies where the whole cafeteria gets involved. Unfortunately, as fun as it would be, I don’t want to waste food like that because the signs around the stations say not to and I’d hate washing marshmallow surprise out of my hair.

Other stuff includes my latest novel endeavor (which I may workshop with the rest of the Writer’s floor), final projects for my first-year seminar and general studying (exciting, right?).

Studying kind of feels like psychic pressure. There’s not really any work, but you feel pressure anyway. Maybe it’s because the syllabus is like your warning sign and as dates approach, it’s like, “Hey…Hey…HEY. YOU HAVE A TEST.”

That would explain the stress, I guess.

Sometimes, kids don’t realize they have tests and essays because they don’t check the syllabus, like when James had to write his essay in twelve hours. He and Zach and I were chatting when he glanced at his syllabus to ensure everything was fine for tomorrow’s class.

It was like a surprise boss level in a videogame.

“Oh [expletive],” he said.

He didn’t really sleep that night. He spent it in the ITC writing like a chicken with its head cut off, and the next afternoon when I stopped by to tutor Zach in chemistry, he was still asleep.

“James,” I said. “James, you have to get up.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s 6:00 (-ish, maybe? It’s hard to remember).”

There was a muffled response and James rolled out of bed.

He was exhausted, but at least his paper was finished. For that, I commend him. Commendations, James.