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Confessions of a Former RA

Confessions of a Former RA

It would happen once or twice a week. Sometimes on weekends. Always late into the night.

I would wander down long, lonely halls and vacant stairways, illuminated only by the flicker of a faulty fluorescent light bulb. If only School Dude had responded to a maintenance request to change that bulb. Maybe I would’ve seen the monster I’d become. Realized that getting my next fix was the only thing keeping me going.

There I was, wearing my best nylon purple duty vest. I looked good. I felt numb.

I’d walk by each and every door. Pace back and forth. Sometimes I would just rest my head against the keyhole. Then wait. And wait some more. Until I heard the sound of voices. Having fun.

Your music was low, but I was high. High on power, high on authority, high from licking the sticky part of Post-its. Three stacks. All yellow. That dull, dangerous yellow.

Sometimes I’d knock, sometimes I wouldn’t. Just to keep you on your toes. You looked good when you’re on your toes, when you knew what was coming; an inspection. A full sweep. Until I couldn’t tell up from down and the blood running through my veins felt like wildfire. Like the Fireball I found under your bed.

The rest was just habit. I’d collect your Wildcards, feeling the hard plastic in my hands. I’ve seen so many Wildcards in my day, the faces just became blurs. At this point it’s hard to remember. But sometimes it’s best to forget.

I’d walk you to the bathroom. Make your pour out the liquid from the bottle. Slowly. The forbidden fluid draining down the pipes of the communal sink. My body went numb from the thought of your conduct meeting.

Look man, I didn’t get in it for the busts. I did it for the room and board. But when I was alone in there, there was so much room to BE bored. So you go on rounds, and round-and-round you go, till you realize you’re spiraling downwards.

I didn’t have a problem. Just a dingle and an oversized sense of self.


 

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