On Wednesday, October 26, your friend, Amelia Pen ‘24, canceled your meal plans for the fourth time in three days. Pen, citing a “last minute Optometrists of Williams club board meeting,” sent you a text five minutes ahead of time that read: “I am SO sorry. I totally spaced and forgot that OOW has a meeting. But I have a free 20 minutes from 11:20-11:40 tomorrow if that works for you??” It did not work for you.
Upon expressing that you were not, in fact, available at that time, as you would be in class (HIST 483: THE WAR), you helpfully suggested a noontime lunch the following day, to which Pen replied that she had her 12-4 Yoga (with dogs) PE class. “No worries!” you politely responded, despite the fact that this was, in fact, becoming quite worrying.
Pen subsequently suggested a convenient 7:30 AM Goodrich meeting, but you had lifeguard training, so that wouldn’t fly, and during your free lunch hour on Thursdays, she had to be “on call in case there was a fire.”
This wasn’t the first time Pen had canceled on you. Last week it was burger night at Resky (her favorite!) and you had plans to discuss her new relationship, but ten minutes after your scheduled meeting time, she sent: “Literally, I am the WORST. Like the worst person ever. I just realized that my mom was going to put my dog on Facetime right now. Can you do an 8:30 dinner next Thursday?” You cheerfully responded “No you’re SO fine, I didn’t even want to eat dinner anyway,” accepting her invitation and neglecting to point out that no dining halls are open at that hour.
Then, at 9:45 the next day, having occupied an entire Lee’s booth longer than any English major, you had nearly cut your losses when you received the fateful message: “Okay I am so sorry. I got lost in a good book and the outside world just fell away! I’m literally the devil incarnate. Like someone should hit me with a baseball bat. Like a metal one too, not like a wiffle ball bat. Like they should just clobber me. I have no idea how you put up with me! Driscoll breakfast tomorrow? 9:55?” With a sigh, you replied, “Omg, I forgot too! I fell asleep, I was JUST about to text you,” like the liar you are.
But now, you were determined not to let Pen’s schedule get the best of you. “Okay, next Friday.” She sent back a screenshot of the most heinous Google Calendar for a single day you’ve ever seen. “November 18th?” Still a no. “Wait, wait,” she said, finally, the iMessage bubbles appearing again and again.
You ultimately decided on December 16th at 3:05pm, but you might have a final then.
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