They deserve each other, but the worst among us don’t deserve them
Theodore was in one of your classes. He’s undeclared but keeps telling people he’s planning on majoring in comparative international economics, which isn’t even a major at UC Davis. Or, in fact, anywhere else. He’s against all forms of government but when you asked him, “So, anarchy?” he responded, “No, I’m against all forms of government.”
Jessica is your friend’s roommate. She’s dedicating herself to a moral vegan existence, which you know more than enough about because she’s brought it up in every conversation, including the one where you tried to talk about your grandfather’s death. (No one was asking you to eat the body, Jessica). At restaurants, she never tips.
Through the gravity of fate, they’ve fallen together—and now they won’t shut up about it. Individually, they may be terrible, but together they’re infinitely worse. They’re a pool party and electricity. They’re stale tortilla chips and a toothache. They’re Romeo and Juliet, but, you know, how it actually ends.
She’s an amateur actress; he’s a writer. Together, they’re conspiring to create the worst one-woman show to exist. It’s about “childhood, remembrance and homophobia.” They’re both straight, and it’s a musical.
Oh, God help us—they just made a joint Instagram account. They want you to immediately follow it and like all their posts.
They’re wearing matching outfits they’ve “thrifted” from a store that sells $50 Guns N’ Roses t-shirts. The caption is an Ed Sheeran quote.
Look at this one: “You stole my heart, but I’ll let you keep it #mywholeworld #loveofmylife.” First of all, they’ve been together for a month and have broken up twice already. Second, how do you MLA cite an Instagram post in your villain origin story?
He’s serenading her now. Where did he even get that ukulele? Was that thing in his bag this whole time? Sorry, “organic hemp tote.” He’s playing Wonderwall. At some point, it’s gotta be legal to hack into their account and shut this whole thing down.
Oh no, they’re talking about getting a dog. Call PETA. You just know they’re going to make an Instagram account for it too.
Are we really back on the musical? Did you tell them you can’t go? No, I already used the dentist excuse. Say something else. Oh my holy Lord, tickets are $40? For a show that takes place on the balcony of her apartment? All of the songs are just “Mamma Mia!” with the words rewritten.
No, we have to get out of this conversation. Fire, tell her there’s a fire. Killer bees. I don’t care where. C’mon.
Oh no, they’re onto us. You have to leave me behind. Run, please, while you still have the chance. Theodore’s trying to pitch his new idea for an experimental reggae-EDM album. Remember me.
Written by: Annabel Marshall — almarshall@ucdavis.edu
Disclaimer: (This article is humor and/or satire and its content is purely fictional. The story and the names of “sources” are fictionalized.)
