Song of the Undergrad

Come closer to me,
things in my rented home
shabby and beautiful like the days of my college years
Yield closer and closer and envelop me in the stimuli of the hour;
floorboards creaking like the moan of my growing pains
insulation lacking like the barrenness of my bank account
cold feet
cold hands
cold panes of glass
cold roommates writhing in the throes of monthly hostility
cold bills monthly magneted to a cold and empty fridge
Yield all of these things to the matter of my flesh and rejoice in the tacky and sensual years of budding adulthood

Were all my tuition dollars practically spent on the ruckus of Theatre, what would it amount to?
Were all my grades admirably scored, what would it amount to?
Were all my future plans articulated and tabbed with colorful post-its, what would it amount to?

The 4.0 and the studious and the dedicated and the motivated and the hungry and the lusty and the usual terms. A student like me, and always the usual terms.

I say to you that the piles of lint and hair accumulating on my bathroom floor and on my hallway floor and on my kitchen floor and on my basement floor are more relics of youth than recorded history. I say that I wear my youth and womanhood in the hairs on my legs and under my arms. Damn the razor and its patriarchal conventionality. Damn the infantility of smoothness. I am a woman in my hair and a woman in my sweat.

Neither a pageant queen nor Cosmopolitan daughter am I.
I take no sooner a shower than when I desire, and no less a shower than what I desire...the natural scent of my glorious body is no less magical than the splendor of roses. Than explosions of fire in the sky. Than the first and last sunset upon the planet earth.

When I arise in the morning, sunshine beams from the crinkles of my groggy grimace and birds sing in the heavens. The sight of my white naked body in the bathroom mirror is no less wonderful than the silver sliver of the crescent moon in the early evenings. It is more priceless than any piece of antiquated art cracking with the distortion of age and preservative techniques; encased behind glass. My body is fresh and young. Ripe with youthful vigor. Nourished with the nectar of canned foods and dried noodles.

I am the epoch of 21 years gestation
I am the splendor of my parent's DNA
I am the exemplification of the “glory days”
Every pore excites and mystifies the boys
Every pore excites and mystifies the girls

Where I to behold you, I would praise you with equal exultation, for the freckles on your face and the dirt beneath your nails are remnants of days spent in the sun and hands working to move soil. I say to you, if you choose a life of harvesting carrots over law school, you as wise as Gandhi. I say to you, if you choose to study law and leave the carrots to the recluses of rural and undereducated populations, than you are also as wise as Gandhi.

Have you ever pondered mortality while bushing your teeth? Have you ever scrubbed a stove and uncovered an epiphany of yourself? Have you ever awaken in the middle of the night to find a stranger spooning you in bed? I say to you: these are they days of your most creative and physically attractive years. The presence of your quirks will attract and repulse possible mates; neither hide nor feign anything.

Naturalize your cosmetic face and lounge with me in sweatpants and t-shirts...or if you are male, cast away your razor and nurture a stubble beard and count with me the tiles on the linoleum floor,
the stars in the sky,
the bills on my fridge,
the scars on our bodies,
the socks scattered about the living room,
the cushions on the sofa,
the hairs in the shower.

Convulse with laughter and join me in jovial frippery,
in the brewing of bulk coffee,
in emptying boxes of toilet paper,
in the draining and the rinsing cycle,
in the thawing of cheese pizzas
in the reading of egregious priced text books,
in eating of frozen dinners and the discarding of bags of trash,
in carelessly tossing about magazines and tenderly preserving raunchy cut-out ads of Calvin-Klein models
in the mounting of posters of mountains
in the sorting of second hand clothing
in the steeping of thrift-shop tea pots
in the indulgence of flannel and lace and denim and the indulgence of silky things
and 100-calorie packets
and absurd amounts of ice cream
and secret notes stashed away in dusty drawers
and secret trysts on back yard porches
and picture frames and cork board pins
and laundry bags...soap...and masses of dryer lint
and in clogged sinks and sticky sponges and dirty dishes and broken strainers and dismembered utensils and melted spatulas and ruined muffin pans and the sweet, sweet conundrum of the lowest priority competition...

Happiness is not found in the accomplishment of arduous tasks, but in the naughty, self-serving sensation of procrastination and time well spent.