To be a sophomore at Monmouth University is to have 1,001 complaints. Quiet hours start at 10 p.m. on the weekdays and midnight on the weekends. The thing is, even if I blast my music at 9 I’ll have a cranky RA knocking on my door telling me to “turn it down.” There are monthly room checks, which means I have to hide all of the “paraphernalia” in my room which includes a blender, microwave, and a decorative wine glass that was obviously made by my Big because I’m an alcoholic slut who pays for her friends and gets shitty grades according to the letters I wear on my chest.

To be a sophomore at Monmouth University is to sometimes live up to the stereotypes and to sometimes not. It means going out on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Sundays when it’s nice out, and sometimes on a Monday or Wednesday just because. It means I only do this in excess because I can. I’m a sophomore at Monmouth University and I plan on making these four years the best four years of my life. This means I do my schoolwork and go to class, but always make time to have fun.

Being a sophomore at Monmouth University means I can’t get sick on the weekends because the Health Center is closed. Even if it were open, the common cold would be mistaken for Gonorrhea and I would somehow be pregnant. Not only can I not get sick on the weekends, I can’t go to the student center or eat grilled chicken at the dining hall before 2 p.m. I can’t put money on my laundry card in the laundry room either. Why would anyone put the money machine in the laundry room? Instead, it’s conveniently located in the dining hall on the way in, just in case I wanted to wash my clothes before eating my chicken caesar wrap with exactly seven croutons in it. At least the convenience store is convenient. It’s right next to Spruce Hall and closes at 5 on the weekends. I guess if I wanted to buy condoms or cookies at 3 in the morning I could just go f*ck myself instead.

If I park in 15-minute parking for 16 minutes, there will be a lovely ticket on my window shield from the almighty MUPD. When I don’t pay that $15 ticket in a timely manner it becomes $40, and then $75. Obviously, the light green punch buggy that parks in 15-minute parking for days will never get a ticket, and why not? Because the owner of that light green buggy is the b*tch RA that hates my taste in music and the fact that I apparently slam my door shut. She told me by making a polite sign saying, “Please do not slam this door shut! Thank you!”

Being a sophomore at Monmouth University means I don’t f*cking care. I don’t care about anything other than my friends, my family, and myself. I don’t give a f*ck about boys and I sure as f*ck don’t care what you think of me. I wake up 15 minutes before class starts, put my hair in a messy bun, throw on a T-shirt, and casually stroll into class approximately one to two minutes late. I don’t give a f*ck because as a freshman at Monmouth University, my high school boyfriend broke my heart and I decided it’s better this way. I do what I want when I want and that’s how I like it.

To be a sophomore at Monmouth University is to be bombarded with emails 24 hours a day, seven days a week. “Join intramural soccer!” “Living on campus next year? You didn’t pay your deposit, Jessica.” “Greek Senate minutes for this week.” “Join SGA!” “Do you want to be a Vagina Warrior?” No I am not living on campus next year and what the f*ck is a vagina warrior? Don’t you people have anything better to do than fill up my inbox with meaningless e-mails that I’ll delete before I even read? OR are you too busy mowing the lawn and waking me up at seven in morning when I don’t have class until 11:30. By the looks of my increasing tuition and the amount of hours the landscapers spend on campus I’d have to guess that at least 85 percent of it goes to laying manure on the ground.

To be a sophomore at Monmouth University is to live 30 minutes away from home and be made fun of by people who aren’t sophomores at Monmouth University because they just don’t understand. They don’t understand the 1,001 complaints. They don’t understand the meaning of sisterhood or how hard I work all the time. They don’t understand that this place has become my home and I never want to leave. They don’t understand that I found the best people to constantly surround myself with and that I always have a smile on my face because of them. They don’t understand why I keep myself so busy and that my time here is almost over. They don’t understand that with every negative, there’s also a positive. And they don’t understand that I wouldn’t take away the complaints, not even for one second.