Now, don’t get me wrong; I love being an R.A. I love helping out my freshman. I love seeing how bright-eyed and bushy-tailed they are when they go down Palm Drive, or see MemChu for the first time, or discover that the dryers can run for more than 15 minutes at a time. I love knowing what groups they’re involved in because their rollouts wake me up at 5 a.m every goddamn morning for the first six weeks of school. I love how they share every detail of their pathetic sex lives and how they let me- and only me- know that Sam has puked again because he hasn’t learned that he shouldn’t gorge himself on Late Night, wine and cheese, and four beers all in one night. That little fuck still thinks he’s cool.
See, my residents really are the best. I help them when they’re locked out because, apparently, they’re smart enough to get into Stanford but not smart enough to remember their goddamn key every time they leave the room. I even help them when they’re panicking over CS106A because, it’s not like I have anything better to do. I mean seriously, Brick Breaker? You’re panicking over that shit? I’m in goddamn 140, I’m dealing with you and your menial lives, I’m sending out job and grad school applications, I’m filling out paperwork for my major. You know, just trying to plan out the whole fuckin’ rest of my life, but, it’s cool. Panic away. You totally have a reason.
And if you need anything, just call me.