By: Linda Wang

Humor Editor

Every weekend, I passionately decide that I’m done shouldering all my senior responsibilities. Ignoring my homework assignments, goals to fix my sleep schedule, and commitments to my extracurriculars, I always and unfailingly pick up my beloved Graphics Editor and diligent coworker, Dell Dumont, for a relaxing Friday night drive. Of course, when we started months ago, we had soaring hopes. We were going to conquer the world (Bay Area), visit the best boba shops in San Jose, and check out viewpoints of the whole bay. Heck, San Francisco was on the list in the beginning. Yet, week after week, we continually stop at only one destination: the local Safeway on North Santa Cruz Avenue.

I’ve learned a lot about this specific Safeway after a couple of months. For example, the entrance to the underground parking lot makes a frustratingly loud and steelly noise every time you drive in, so the required speed is around 0.001 miles an hour. By the elevator, there is a small array of yellow Amazon lockers, all of which are blank except for one locker which charmingly reads, “hello my name is: BRUH.” We pretend to wander the aisles, commenting and examining every item from cat food to Steam gift cards. 

Side note 1: at this rate, we could quit our jobs and start working at Safeway. We’d know where everything is, and the workers already recognize us by name. After perusing hundreds –– maybe even thousands –– of options, we expectedly grab our singular purchase, salt and pepper chips, and get on our way. Side note 2: I think those chips might contain crack cocaine. Very addictive. 

In the car, Dumont and I relax in our seats and snack on our goods. We turn up the radio, which only plays two artists: Ghost and Jaden Smith, rotating one after another. We discuss all possible topics of all natures. “Sometimes I get caught up in how I’m constantly perceived by others,” Dumont muses. “I’m frustrated by the extent of which my hyperfixations dictate my daily life,” I sigh. We queue up more background music to our nonsensical and philosophical discussions. Past midnight, we once again collapse in our beds after I spam Dumont with around ten photos I took of their close up face. And the cycle repeats.