MELISSA HARTZ
News Editor

“Bar drinks? Bar drinks, ma’am?”
I sit up in my chair, moving my thick-rimmed sunglasses up onto my hairline, shielding my eyes from the Caribbean sun with my hand. The young man stands at the foot of my lounge chair, holding a tray in his hands. I tilt my eyes upward at him, a smile dancing on the corners of my lips.
“That would be lovely,” I hear myself say.
The young man takes my order and card before disappearing into the throngs of sun-kissed, bikini-clad bodies to retrieve my drink. I settle my sunglasses back onto the bridge of my nose and recline back into the lounge chair, running a hand through my dark hair and gazing out to the horizon. A contented sigh escapes my lips, drowned out by the sound of a small wave crashing against the ocean liner as it cuts through crystalline-blue water.
The bar server returns with my drink at a speed only achievable by cruise ship staff. Before I am able to thank him, he zips away into the crowd. “Bar drinks, madam? Bar drinks? Something from the bar, sir?”
A thin layer of condensation has formed on the outside of the tumbler, where the frigid glass meets the humid, tropical heat. The ice clinks soothingly in the glass as I pick it up, the scent of Caribbean rum and cola intermingling in my nostrils. I lean my head back against the chair, the waves crashing rhythmically in the distance. I don’t know where the ship is headed, but oddly enough, I don’t care, as long as it is far away from Suburbia, New Jersey. I close my eyes, the gentle rocking of the ship lulling me into a half-sleep state. Suddenly, I feel someone standing over me, blocking my sun.
“Oh my god! I’m so glad I found an RA. I left my keys on my bed. Can you let me into my room?”
Oh no. God, no.
Like a time warp, I am pulled from my tropical fantasy land and into my university’s lounge. With the Internet out in all of the residence halls, people pack like sardines into the lounge, each hooking up to the room’s wireless Internet to get some work done. Bad flourescent lighting washes out our faces, making us look like lost souls, misplaced and confused by our disconnection from the world. I sit on a stained maroon couch with a rip in the cushion, white bud headphones in my ears, my computer whirring quietly in my lap.
“Well?” asks the girl standing before me, placing her hands on her hips for emphasis. Her bun flops to the side as she tilts her head expectantly.
I look up at her in a daze, pulling one of the buds from my ears.
“Yeah…yeah, sure,” I say, fumbling for my keys.
I put my head down, hiking up the many flights of stairs to the girl’s room. It’s been a tough day - the Caribbean escape was a welcome reprieve, even if only a dream. The Internet shuts down on half the campus, my frustration is ever-growing with my job. The day’s events are topped off with a monumental fight with the young man I’ve been recently spending my time with, and the fact that I’ll probably never talk to him again makes me sad. Not sad enough to remedy it, mind you, but sad nonetheless.
The light on the door blinks green when I swipe my master card, and the automatic lock clicks open. The girl slips in without so much as a thank you. After two years, you’d think I’d be used to it.
“You’re welcome,” I say to no one in particular, hearing my own voice echo back to me in the hallway. I shuffle back down the stairs to the lounge, placing my computer back in my lap, the wooden frame of the old couch creaking in protest. I place the white ear buds in again, and turn my music on, hoping that will be the last time I’ll be disturbed this evening. I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to whisk back to that faraway escape in the islands.
Tomorrow is a new day, but I could certainly use something from the bar tonight.

MELISSA HARTZ
News Editor

Hungry for a change of scenery, my friend Allie and I have set up camp at an artsy coffee shop down the street from school. Our lacquered black table is strewn with sample resumes, cover letters, and contact sheets. Thin wisps of steam billow and fade from the lids of our white paper cups as we type. The soft music playing in the coffee shop is accented by the rhythmic clicking of laptop keys. Allie gazes at me over the top of her screen.
“Are you going to bold your work experience?” she asks me. I shake my head in the negative. We flip our computers around and compare the aesthetics of our resumes.
Earlier in the day, Allie and I stopped into the university’s career development center together (I suppose we’re somewhat of a package deal) to get some opinions on our resumes and cover letters. With papers full of pen marks and scribbles around us in half-circles, we type furiously, pausing only to sip some coffee. I sift through sites of magazines, radio stations, and newspaper postings, all seeking college interns. It’s exciting and also daunting - this is a big jump from working on the university newspaper. To be honest, it’s a little surreal. Just where does the time go, anyway? Allie rests her chin in her hand, looking at me over her computer.
“I feel like I’m a little kid doing grown-up work,” she sighs. I nod in agreement, bringing my cup to my lips. This place makes the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had - smooth and mild with an absolutely luxurious mouth-feel. A modest price tag makes my meager college budget happy, too. I take a long sip, and the warm beverage makes my cheeks flush.
I put my glasses down for a moment and can’t help but think about how quickly time passes. Four years ago I was a junior in high school. I was wrapped up in my own teenage life, and college was still a distant thought. Now here I am, four years later, looking for real-life jobs and Brooklyn apartments I’ll probably never be able to afford. It never stops me from looking though - I suppose as old as I feel, I am still young enough to dream.
Swirling the last of my now-lukewarm coffee in the paper cup, I lean back in my chair. I suppose everyone feels this way as the end of their college career draws near, sort of the worry and second-guessing, wondering if everything you’ve done over the past few years is worth it. It’s something like a mid-life crisis…maybe more of a quarter-life crisis. Not where you’re displeased about the past, but you find yourself worrying over the future. I suppose the best thing you can do is try and make a good impression. I finish up my revisions and close out of the program. The world is my oyster. I can do anything I set my mind to.
At least I’m still young enough to dream.

KAYLA HASTRUP
Editor-in-Chief

It is here, officially. My last semester of my last year as an undergraduate. The other day, my dad asked me what did I get out of college now that I’m soon to graduate. Sure, I learned a lot about communication studies and journalism - that is, after all, what I went to school for. But I must admit, most of my learning and what I will take away with me when I graduate, did not come from the classroom.
While I love school and love to be involved on campus, my greatest learning achievement took place outside of the university bubble.
Over the break, I was forutnate enough to participate in SGA’s Alternative Winter Break to Costa Rica. The winter prior, a group of students and I studied for two weeks in Costa Rica, including a week in Manzanillo. Through that course, I gained such a strong connection with the locals and the community that when the opportunity to go back arose, I was eager and excited to jump at the chance.
When I studied down there in January of 2009, the group did a day of community service where we helped clean the local school. That day of service work was so inspirational that I knew I wanted to do more to make a difference in the village.
Being able to spend a week of my life helping a community, especially one that has grown so close to my heart, was an unbelievable opportunity that I will remember and cherish forever. Living in such a close-knit community where the people take nothing for granted and have such a positive attitude about life, has truly changed me.
The people of Manzanillo are hard to describe because the village is not like anywhere else. They live off the land and are grateful for everything life has to offer. They live by the motto “pura vida,” meaning “pure life,” which I strive to live by even while being back in the States. This simple motto shows their connection with the land and the community, while still being economically stable, healthy and happy.
Staying in a small village like Manzanillo really helps you appreciate what you have in your own life. It taught me not to take anything for granted and that you don’t need a lot to be happy. I think in the States people become overwhelmed and over-absorbed by the idea of wealth and success. To be able to see and be immersed in a culture so different from my own was somewhat of a self-revelation.
Many of my peers who are also soon to graduate seem to be most concerned about finding a job that will make a lot money and allow them to buy fancy things. While I  agree that it is important and necessary to be economically stable, I do not want it to be the driving force of my life. Being able to take a step back and learn to have an open-mind about a different lifestyle has changed my perspectives and helped me prioritize what is truly important in life.
Any service project will change a person only for the better. It is a great feeling to be able to give people something you have that they do not. To be able to actually go, give our creativity, supply the finances, and do the hard labor had a greater impact on the community and on the students than handing over money could have.
I know that the trip has changed my values and lifestyle, but I also hope our efforts motivate the children to go to school and continue their education. Being able to participate in such service projects have inspired me to put forth a greater effort in helping others, regardless of what career I end up going forward with. I find it amazing how much an individual can learn about him or herself by learning about the lives of others.
As I prepare to graduate, I feel that I know more about myself and what truly matters in life, not through what I have done for myself, but because of the effort I have put in to help others.

JOHN SAAVEDRA, JR.
Contributor

You dropped into my life and started roaming down empty streets and waiting on desolate corners. And the wind followed you, whistling the sad war songs of your time. And you remind me of women and their lonely, drunken struts as they walk off buses. I’ve taken care of those kind of women. I sit them next to me in theaters, while huge men recite the poetic words of Miller, and hold them, letting them fall asleep on my shoulder, and kiss them on the top of their heads, where their hair separates in two beautiful directions, and I let them sleep until they’re sober. And when they wake up they see me and wonder if the kisses really happened. I’m not wondering about my feelings, Holden. I’ve only ever liked that kind of lonely woman while she’s drunk. And you said you didn’t need people. You walked into bars and talked to men on elevators and they jipped you of course, didn’t they? Your small tuft of premature white hair is not enough to make you wise. Someone pointed out just the other night that I had inherited a few white hairs myself. Trust me I know. It doesn’t make you wise. But I’m not impulsive like you, Holden. I don’t take elevators.
I took the stairs one afternoon and it was her birthday. And I said, “Happy birthday.” Then I kissed her. You would’ve done the same. She wasn’t lonely. But sometimes it happens to us. We do anything for connections, for warmth. But after it happened I was still numb and still on the same woman. I couldn’t let go. You can understand, right? Remember how you held on to that hat for dear life?
And then we’re in mental hospitals, Holden. Or maybe in a hospice and we are just waiting to die, waiting for someone to let go on the edge of a building. We knew where we’ve been, where we’re going. You and I both have said this: “I’ve never been nice a day in my life.” Ha! It’s a wonder we’re not clawing ourselves out of existence. We are so reckless. And they laugh at it. From days hidden in closets with plastic knives to kicking school books across hallways, we are guilty of all of it. I know how much you and I both need people, Holden. We both know how much we hate people.
But you’re growing up. I will admit that. You tell your stories. You hum along with those sad war songs. And walk into jazz clubs and soak it all in, too. You finally talk and spill truths (or lies, we’ll never know) to the world. And we’re adolescents and we’re SUPPOSED to hate our lives because it just means that we won’t be drunk somewhere proclaiming “High school was the best time of my life!” You let those meat heads do that with their anthems and credos that mean nothing to you. It’s all just a long thread that follows you on your way to the store for some scissors.
And we all have break downs.
“I’m terrible, you know? What I’m doing. It’s terrible.”
And we all want to run away.
“I’ll ignore. And when the phone calls come, I won’t answer. And when they’re knocking on the door, I’ll laugh and take another sip. I’ll laugh because I’m no longer here.”
And we all want to be remembered.
“I just hope they play ‘Hey Jude’ at my funeral.”
And when they ask us if we miss home yet, we answer them: “I am home.”
One day, you had this great idea. You said you wanted to leave. Right now, right this instant. “The hell with it, leave it unfinished.” How you were going to get out, I haven’t the slightest idea. Model T. Steamboat. Locomotive. Hot air balloon. Beanstalk. All you knew was that somewhere you could set up your own place in the woods and read Thoreau, but not because nature was your friend. You always said you were in this world but not a part of it. This world has abandoned you the way I’m afraid it could abandon me. So we could farm and spit at the soil because we hated it and nothing would grow and we’d starve. Then we’d laugh and order another martini. You know I would’ve joined you. There was a time when I had my bags packed and ready, Holden. I could’ve left with you.
But we’re tied down. And we’ve lived the last four years. You were always in my pocket and I heard your cynical voice when I needed it. And when she’d come around again with malicious eyes and I’d prick my finger against her thorns, you’d stop me from bleeding out. I could’ve hemorrhaged. But I didn’t. My heart had an eternal bleeding instead.
There are always happy endings though, Holden. You sat in an asylum, listening to “Let It Snow” as you looked out the window. The snow fell and it was the first part of this world that you thought was beautiful. Honestly. It was why you decided to tell your story in the first place. You were happy to do it. And I listened.
It snowed outside today. And I realized this morning that I could go back to taking care of drunken women on buses. And fall in love with them for the entire presentation of “Death of a Salesman.” I could go back to any of them. They’d let me in. And I could stay and settle. And not be happy. But I’d have blankets and soup and coffee and tears. And I could forget that this moment happened. That it had ever snowed today. That the person that changed things for me, that kept me ticking won’t read this. But then I realize why I wrote this in the first place, Holden. I realize it was never about forgetting at all. This was simply to say – and it’s easier now that you’ve gotten your wish… This is simply to say I love you.

MELISSA HARTZ
News Editor

It’s 5:30 at night, and I am about to begin my very first kickboxing class. Though my workouts usually occur in the campus gym, I was lucky enough to be offered a guest pass to an outside gym by my friend Nicole - this will be a nice change from the elliptical and weight room. I can’t help but feel a little warrior-like as I strap the red gloves to my hands, eyeing up the nearly eight-foot heavy bag chained up in front of me. Our instructor, black-haired and built, removes his green plaid flannel shirt and lays it in the center of the punching bags. I’m in pretty good shape - this should be easy, right?
Wrong.
Very, very wrong.
Halfway through the hour-long class, I’m having visions of myself puking all over the parking lot by the time 6:30 hits. Tendrils of hair come loose from my ponytail and stick to my face, and I can only imagine how badly my makeup is running.
The sounds of rattling chains and loud music are all around me. My lungs feel cold and tight, sucking in as much air as possible with each breath. This is, without a doubt, the most challenging physical test I’ve ever taken on. Yet, as intense as the class is, I find myself thoroughly enjoying the whole experience.
My closed fists make satisfying “whumps” against the bag on contact, and the material gives slightly under my blows. For a little while, there is nothing in the room except for me and the bag chained to the ceiling. With each hit, I can feel my stress traveling through my knuckles, dissipating into the fabric like leaves into the wind. Everything that was weighing on me, sitting in the back of my mind and eating away at who I am, is slowly lifting.
Toward the end of the class, we close our legs around the bottom of the bag and hold a dumbbell over our heads, engaging the core muscles to bring us into a sitting position. Once up to the top, we would take the dumbbell and hit the bag as high as possible. With sweat practically pouring off me, I crunch up and smash the weight against the heavy black canvas. I imagine that every stressor in my life is balled up inside that boxing bag, and each crash of weight against canvas is a small victory for me and my self-confidence.
The instructor calls the end of the class, and I lay on my back on the mat, feeling my abdomen rise up and down quickly with every breath I take. I’m not one for spiritual experiences, but I imagine that that might be what one feels like.
Perhaps these challenges we present ourselves with help us find a little more than just physical strength. Perhaps we need to push ourselves to our limits in order to see who we truly are.
I am stronger than anything this life throws my way.
The red padded gloves hang over my bed like a trophy as I sleep, full of hot tea, ibuprofen, and satisfaction.

JOHN SAAVEDRA, JR.
Contributor

The last couple of weeks have reminded me of the connections we make with people. Sometimes these connections are subtle. I hear myself thinking, “Well, he/she seems like a nice person. I’d like to hang out with him/her sometime.” Other times we see people we have similarities with. We see the artist within ourselves when we look at them or talk to them. We see the person we have been aiming to be and for others to see all along. It’s always a good feeling when you are compatible with someone, alike with someone.
Another realization is the fact that human beings are like spontaneous sparks of light. They are constantly rushing in and out of our lives, passing by us at mind-boggling speed. Most of these small lights barely stop to say, “Hello,” or “Sorry for bumping into you.” Human beings are constantly flickering on and off in their own private suns.
This is the sweet moment: I have found many of these people in the past two months. They are writers, musicians, poets, artists, smokers, laughers, runners, scientists, people that like to stare. Blue-eyed beauties with a tinge of green. People who like to hug and kiss on the cheek. Those abnormal people who will share angel food cake with you, not worrying about the germ-crazed factoids surrounding us or the swine flu scare. These are my people. My friends. These are the people I want to hold hands with and march into the next day.
Not to flatter—or pity—myself, but: Writing is a lonely business. It almost equates to being an undertaker. Both of these individuals turn to the silence and emptiness in their professions as company. The writer and the undertaker try to build images, whether it is on paper or a face. There are barely any lights in the workroom of a writer, besides perhaps a desk lamp or the dim light of the monitor (why doesn’t anyone use typewriters anymore?). So it is amazing when someone comes along and shines a bit of extra light on you. These rare but beautiful moments have come to me in the form of writing sessions, those strange occasions that occur almost against our will because writers can be such loners. More than once, I’ve sat down with someone, our laptops facing each other, the clicking of each other’s keyboards relaxing one another. That symbolic clicking gives us the one reassurance we can have as young writers in a hailstorm: we are not alone. And what comes out of that feeling of companionship is something very beautiful. A poem, a story, an essay, an energetic article that says, “Look out world! I’m not afraid to speak my mind!” Perhaps these moments can even give us a glimpse into what the creative process really is. Maybe we are not inspired by loneliness, but by the thought that we are able to make a connection with something. Some of us write to make a connection with others. Another writer might write to make a connection with him/herself. Either way, there are connections to be made. We are like the swarm of ladybugs clinging on to the Mansion in the fall: cold and looking for a home.
What have I learned from this overwhelming melting pot of experience constantly being dropped over my head? Some lights flicker on around us and somehow—I have no doubt this is one of the small miracles that make the human condition such a wonderful experience—make our own light even brighter.

JOHN SAAVEDRA, JR.
Contributor

Word of the day: transition.
It is bouncing around every freshman’s head, including my own. My first moments as a college student were ones played out with music— I room with Isaac Leggett and Matt Ryan, after all. I set my stuff down on the floor, my father following close behind with more things, my mother taking very slow steps into the room that would soon become her son’s new home. I looked around. Though the room wasn’t anything special in size, I could still feel a sense of its enormity. At that moment I felt like an ant, expectation’s big foot ready to stomp down on my puny body. I was scared in those first moments.
This is false: you can leave your home.
You cannot. The second thought coursing through my head after the fear was gone was that I was completely “free.” There would be no one to tell me to clean my room or invade my privacy — my parents don’t ever knock, which makes for hundreds of interrupted writing sessions. At long last, I was going to go out whenever I wanted, wherever I wanted.
But then I realized that every time I came back to my dorm on Sunday I needed to Febreze (yes, I can turn air freshener products into verbs!) my room. I didn’t only need to clean my room, I wanted to. I fold my clothes and put them in organized drawers categorized by type of apparel. I even put a new trash bag in the garbage can, sometimes even in my suitemate’s! It’s really scary realizing that I’m listening to my mother when she’s not around. As much as I hated the rules, the scolding, the complaining, I end up living my life with those same credos. Even if I’m running the clockwork of my life on my own now, my parents and their teachings are embedded in me. Home stays with you wherever you go.
Another lie: college doesn’t change you.
Fears are conquered on open mic nights. History, however small it can be (although huge for the individual), was made in the Mansion. A shy eighteen-year-old writer stood in front of a tightly packed crowd. It was silent. The mood was perfect for a poem. The happy folk songs were done with and only those with endurance were still in the room. They sat waiting for the writer to speak. His first words were nervous ones. They didn’t sound natural at all. In fact, he’d been rehearsing them all night, as he watched people begin to battle their heavy eyelids at a quarter past twelve.
“I wrote this last night. It’s short so it will be quick and painful…less.”
No one laughed. He was never a comedian.
Then he looked down at the paper. “Also Sprach Zarathustra” began to play in the background like it would in a Stanley Kubrick film. He read, “Man reading a newspaper…”
He read the whole thing, silence throughout. It was not a funny poem. He wouldn’t dare try something like that. A year before, he wouldn’t have even dared go up and read a poem in front of an audience. This night, he decided to change.
Final words of the poem: “A day in his life.”
Routine: keeping to myself, not sharing, not giving an inch of myself to the public, keeping quiet. Writing. Pondering on whether I should step out of my shell. A day in my life.
When I sat back down, people clapped. Brandon Battersby, a prominent student in the Creative Writing program, gave me a thumbs up. I didn’t feel like I had affected the audience with my poem. I hadn’t made it even more silent, as each person’s thoughts began to race in their heads. It was a simple sea of words lost in a wave. But experience is never lost. After that night, I feel like I can read again, and with a little bit more confidence. Next time I don’t have to say dumb jokes before I read. Next time my paper won’t shake as I read it. Most importantly, there will be a next time.
A pathetic attempt at wisdom: pick up a pair of sticks, start playing with them. Eventually, you will learn how to start a fire.
Last words: A new day. Discover something new about yourself. Make it sacred. Make it home. Nothing you have learned so far will be left behind. It was all thrown into the cocoon that is adolescence. You will be different when you bloom. A butterfly.

I have a small addiction. I create people and tell them what to do. I create the same people over and over again, and watch them act out the plans I have made for them. They are always thin, attractive, rich, and have great furniture. Their houses stay clean from the maid, and a job promotion is just a skill bar away. Their children never miss a homework assignment. Their gardens never go untended, and their love life is unbelievable. I feel organized when I play The Sims.

Marcella Lockston is the pop star of Calpurnia Heights. I worked her way up from a gas station attendant to the spiked haired, spandex wearing, serial dating rocker that she is today. Her boyfriends are many, her obligations few; one dog (Biscuit), and of course, her booming career. She started out like the rest; a template. I chose the lazy, half closed eyes, and the jet black hair to contrast her milky skin, dressed her in brown boots, cut shorts, and a white tank top.

My room is tidy. I know where most things are. The extra pens in the desk drawer, the body lotion under the bed, and even the most obscure of items, like thank you cards, I know where those are too; top shelf of closet to the left in picture box labeled “childhood photos.” I know that when my boyfriend sleeps over and leaves his toothbrush in the shower that I have to take a deep breath and handle it until he leaves. The status of my room is in my hands. The comfort of neatness makes me happy. I play the Sims best when my room is clean.

Marcella has no write up in the game, but I know that she eventually wants a family. She wants to be a single mother, not held down by one of the many men that she dates. Her daughter will be named something outrageous, like Radiator, or Fleece. Her career will reach the top, and then slowly dwindle because she wants it to, because I will make her have twelve children, if the game doesn’t lock up first (which it often does). She will adopt, she will play the guitar, and she will finally fall in love with the cleaning man, who has been there in the background her whole life and took her this long to notice. I will wrap her life up into a simple story; a pink ribbon ending.

I never thought I would have a planner. I always thought I wouldn’t want to be bogged down by plans; that I could frolic around and bump into people and places and spontaneously become fabulous. I have sadly learned that this is impossible. I can’t even tell my boyfriend if I’m available for Saturday if I don’t have my planner in my hand, not because I’m tremendously busy, but because I don’t remember. Sometimes, I study the planner for twenty minutes at a time. I sit in a desk or on a sofa and go over each event, assignment, teeth cleaning, TV program, or car payment schedule. Somehow reading it, memorizing it even, makes me think I will accomplish them without difficulty, that I won’t forget or I’ll do the assignment ahead of time, or I’ll diminish all of my debt because I wrote it down.

Mr. and Mrs. Stewart have three children, two large golden retrievers, and a vegetable garden. Mr. Stewart is in charge of the test research lab in Calpurnia Heights. Mrs. Stewart is a stay at home mom who has an affair with Mr. Andy Howard a block down every afternoon after the children have hurried off to school. Every day I try to make Mrs. Stewart paint, either before or after her “lunch” with Andy. It’s good for her; she needs to expand her horizons. She’s never had a job, and she doesn’t go out much, and before Mr. Stewart finds out about Andy and leaves her for good, alone with the children, she should have a profitable craft of some sort to support her family.

I want to live without plans. I hate it when someone gives me a “remember the date” or makes weekend plans that must include me. I love going; I hate planning. If I think about all the written events in my planner, and realize that I have no weekends, I’ll just cry. Or more realistically, I’ll clean. I’ll make my bed, straighten the comforter until it looks like I haven’t slept in it for days, dust the dresser, clean the toilet bowl, and re-stack my books. I may not have a weekend, but I have a clean room.

The Sims releases the same obsessive-compulsive satisfaction that I get when I clean my room. I don’t feel productive when I play the game, however. I pause my own life and progress Mrs. Stewart’s, Marcella’s, and the Howard girls’. But it’s the same tidying away of loose pens, good, the girls did their homework, of vacuuming the floor, excellent Mr. Stewart got a promotion, of putting a clean duvet on the comforter, very nice work on that last painting Mrs. Stewart. I know where they are, how they are arranged, and what they are going to be doing tomorrow.

There are three speed levels to the game, regular (slow), medium (slightly sped up), and high (lightning). I play the game mostly on high. I watch them make pancakes, clean the bathroom, garden some tomatoes, call the kids and husband for breakfast, and watch them eat in less than 30 seconds (our time). If something gets out of hand, simply slow down. That’s part of The Sims beauty, slowing down on command. If, for instance, in real life someone caught on fire, one would not be able to briefly stop time and grab a fire extinguisher or run upstairs to the telephone without fear of being too late. In the Sims, this is possible. If a Sim catches on fire, pause the game, tell another one to grab the phone and call the fire department. And what if there isn’t another Sim, you ask? Exit the game and start over. You may have regressed back a skill point or two, but at least they aren’t dead.

It was recently when I had just cleaned my room. The bed was made, all the pens, clothes, toothbrushes, and slippers were in their assigned areas and I was ready to play. I clicked into Calpurnia Heights, and searched for the Stewart residence. Their house was gone. I retraced my game from last night, remembering that I built their house from ground up with the carpet, wall, and paint tools. Where was their house?! I started a slight panic as I went over each Sims house, I moved the pointer from the Greber’s to the Kilhent’s to Marcella’s place and I still couldn’t find their house. The program deleted my house. THE PROGRAM DELETED MY HOUSE.

This has only happened one other time in Sims history. Poor Mr. and Mrs. Ishmay, they had two daughters and lucrative careers. I was looking forward to getting those girls married, but my computer crashed right in the middle of my game, and I lost them forever. It’s too frustrating to create them again, and it just wouldn’t be the same. I had to move on.

I frequently save my games because something bad could happen at any moment. I went downstairs for a muffin one day, and both my Sims were burned to death. They forget to take things out of the oven sometimes, and when you don’t put a fire alarm on the wall, the firemen don’t come, and there go your Sims. So now, I save. If I don’t like what happens, I exit into the neighborhood, and re-enter their house from the last save point, and everything is back to normal. Mr. Stewart has caught Mrs. Stewart numerous times with Andy, but he doesn’t know it.

I used to be cruel. Before the saving ritual, I used to drown them. The first version of the game only allowed children to grow up until about 10 years old. They stayed that way … forever. They didn’t become teenagers, and they didn’t become adults, so if you decided to have kids, you had kids until, well … you killed them. The only way to assure death in the game (besides leaving them without a fire alarm, which could take “months”) is to get them very tired, and make them go swimming, then take away the ladder. I know, try not to judge. I really wouldn’t drown actual children; they grow up. Why would you make a game where the kids didn’t grow up? What other choice did they leave me? I had to do something. They were just eating the food, and hanging around, and doing homework all the time for no reason. They were trapped in middle school, how awful. I freed them, really, and it created a happier game, for them and for me. The next version allowed teenagers and adults. Drowning doesn’t really occur anymore.

Sometimes I’m afraid that I will treat the people in my life like I do Marcella, or my room, that I will trap them into one of the lined spaces in my planner. That I will tidy them under my bed or in a drawer and expect them to be there doing whatever I had them doing when I left. I don’t want to control my boyfriend, which is why is so very vital to shut my mouth about the toothbrush, even though when I take a shower it makes my skin crawl to think that shower and body wash items have made their way into his bristles, and that when he asks me where his toothbrush is, I don’t shriek back, “YOU PUT IT IN THE SHOWER, STUPID!” It’s important to keep the controlling within Calpurnia Heights.

Angela is a successful writer residing in Calpurnia Heights. She lives there with her fiancé Jesse, the famous filmmaker of Evergreen Fields. They have a large cottage, two cats, and an expensive fruit juicer. Angela wants children one day, but feels that her career is more important right now. Her house is cleaned by Martha the maid, and her days are mostly spent writing. Maybe she will buy a beach house in the town over, maybe she will raise a few children and love them even more than writing and maybe, she will find that one day, The Sims will become just a silly game that she can play whenever she wants to have some fun, instead of trying to get control of her life in the small ways that she can.

ANGELA SPARANDERA
ASSISTANT EDITOR