When I received email after email about paying the class of 2018 for a “senior gift”, I scoffed. Why would I, Sallie Mae’s bitch for the next six decades, donate money to a school where clubs can just buy Segways willy-nilly? Their answer: so that I wouldn’t get tackled off my bike and tased in the neck behind Tresidder. And that was apparently only a warning—when I came to, a lock of my hair was missing and the senior gift venmo handle was tattooed onto my forearm in the font from Rent. Still so tacky, right?
I figured that they were just trying to scare me and wouldn’t pursue this any further. So, I continued to ignore the emails and the beaming red dot that would sometimes appear over my heart whenever I was near a window. I would also find cryptic notes in my backpack (Jansport, if you were wondering) saying stuff like “a sacrifice is needed” and “a toll WILL be exacted”. The tone of the notes also alternated between creepy/culty and mafia-like (i.e. “you’ll be sleepin with the salamanders”), which was kind of distracting and took away from the message, in my opinion.
Well, I called their bluff alright. Here I am, tied up in what I’m pretty sure is just the back of a Home Depot and with all of my molars in a sliced open Dr. Pepper can four feet away from me. I’m almost certain that my identity has been completely wiped already (I think my fingerprints were burned off?), but honestly they may have gotten to me. I’m ready to donate! (Rodriguez)