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“Are you not entertained?  Are you not entertained?  Is this not why you are here?”

Alright, alright, I’m being dramatic.  But think of it like this, if you’ve ever been a Residential Advisor then you know what it means to keep people from a) attempting to watch the entire world burn b) killing themselves and c) killing each other.  Sure you’re probably rolling your eyes at the memories of your ‘less than lame RA.’  Or maybe you don’t even know what an RA is because “I didn’t need college and neither did Bill Gates.  Bitch.”

But humor me as I humor you with these continued tales of A Retired Glorified Babysitter.

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Entry 321:  The entire lounge of my floor smells horrid because a daring pioneer of marijuana usage has tried to sauté weed in the community microwave.  His concoction would go on to be used in weed brownies that temporarily paralyze a girl due to their strength.

Entry 299:  I’m told by a resident that two things are important in his life; his momma and his guitar.

Entry 149:  A resident is explaining to me that he can’t watch Ebony Porn because of how rude the language is toward women.

Entry 290:  One of my residents is explaining that he intends to rape me because it’s the only way to assume power of the floor, a rule he learned from watching a show about prison etiquette.  And that’ll he be a kind god to the residents once the deed is completed.

Entry 265:  I’m checking two guys out of their rooms after a year of living on the same floor with them and I realize I don’t know their names.  I have key cards with all their information written down, but I’m not sure who is who.  So I drop both on the floor in a faked act of clumsiness and allow them to pick up the cards and swap if need be, as I explain that they need to fill out the paper work to check out of their dorm.

Entry 134:  A resident claims that he can vomit on command in a lounge full of teenaged guys.  To my dismay.

Entry 380:  Six hours, literally, have passed and an argument of ten or more different guys continues to rage on as to whether people are born gay, or choose to be such.

Entry 222:  I’m in the lounge by myself writing a paper.  A resident walks in, chooses to sit right next to me on the couch despite the many open seats, pulls out his laptop and opens pornographic content.  Straight-faced, he looks at me and asks, “You don’t mind do you?”

Entry 363:  A fellow RA is telling me about his experience of fingering vomit out of a residents mouth, as instructed by the emergency operator, in order to keep them from choking.  He asks our boss if we can at least get gloves in the duty bag.  A request that I now support.

Entry 111:  There’s a crash against my door, as if someone is trying to kick it down.  I hear shouting.  I roll my eyes and then pause the movie I’m watching because I’ve become accustomed to the ridiculous.  Turns out, two of my residents are in a fist fight in the hallway right outside my door.

Entry 324:  We’ve just won a rivalry college football game titled “Bedlam” and there’s a gathering outside my dorm where a body of students are attempting to burn the opposing teams flag.

Entry 344:  Every time someone poops in the community showers, which –  mind you – occurs more often than you’d think, the entire floor accuses ‘the Asians’ first, which roughly translates to any foreign study-abroad student living on our floor.  Asian or not.

Entry 135:  A resident vomits on command because the room full of teenaged guys dares him to “prove it.”

Entry 277:  One of my residents has his penis out in the community lounge because girls on Omegle (a website that champions the phrase “talk to strangers”) have offered nudes for nudes.

Entry 322:  A study-abroad student is explaining Australian politics to me because I accidentally referred to “football” as soccer.

Entry 199:  Sometimes I feel dead inside.

Entry 341:  I can no longer post bulletin boards in the elevator landing because my residents continue to draw penises on them.

Entry 200:  Once again, a resident is swearing to me that he can punch through the concrete wall of our residence hall.  And once again, I watch as his hand crumbles to the unyielding surface.

Entry 362:  I’m no longer an RA, yet I receive a text about an incident report I filed about a lounge couch that was thrown from an 11th story window.

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