Dear Melanie*,
I get it. The social life at MIT isn’t exactly the rager you expected when you applied, but it’s not like I’m at an actual party school myself. So seriously, stop inviting yourself over. Not only does my room barely fit me, but now we both need to share the space with your three suitcases. You know you’re not moving in, right?
The truth is, I don’t want to spend my weekend babysitting you through your drunken escapades on a foreign campus where you know no one. It’s nice to reminisce about the inside jokes we shared in high school. Except no one gets them but us. And when I say us, I really just mean you. I forgot them, the same way I forgot how awkward you are around new people. You don’t know who Alice is nor have you met her new ugly boyfriend, so why are you laughing at the joke?
It’s cool that you don’t go here and just wanna let your hair down (and leave it plastered on my shower wall), but I’m the one who has to stick around to clean up all the literal and figurative messes you leave when you barf in my friends’ pillowcases and steal their frat composites. Surprise surprise, they don’t want to hook up with your vomit breath. No means no; this isn't Yale.
Finally, I know that now’s a really convenient time for you, but I’ve got a midterm on Monday that you failed to consider when you showed up on my doorstep. So when we’re sitting in Van Pelt on Saturday afternoon and you ask me what I usually do on weekends, don’t be surprised when I ask you what time your bus leaves. They don’t call it Rosenparty for nothing. But you wouldn’t get that.
Love, Santana*
P.S. Let’s wait a few days before we Skype.
*Names have not been changed to protect the identity of the individuals involved. I know you used my toothbrush, bitch.
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