I wrote this article to meet my end-of-year quota.

Well, I guess I really cut to the chase with that title. No beating around the bush, no clickbait, just the straight-up hard truth. If I’m continuing this trend of being blatantly honest, we might as well address the elephants in the room. 

You, lovely reader, are, with 99 percent certainty, one of three things: A) flipping through The Spectator and beguiled by my objectively fire article name, B) someone who knows me in real life (if so, please! Leave! I prefer to keep my mysterious aura), or C) nobody, because let’s be real—nobody actually reads the Humor section. On the other hand, I, with 100 percent certainty, am one of one thing: exhausted from the heapzilla of projects my teachers have collectively decided to dump on me. As the beautiful natural sunlight filters through the windows, I am holed up in a café in Jackson Heights, scheming my way to a mediocre word count so I can finally crash out and reconnect with nature. 

But truly, I hang my head in shame for allowing myself to get to the depths of despair. If my Humor career were a steak, it would be a juicy, pink-and-brown medium-rare from cooking the competition during my first semester. I had a grand total of THREE written articles! (For all the emails from humor@stuyspec.com I received pleading with the Humor writers to actually write, exceeding the quota by one was nothing less than revolutionary.) 

But then Stuyvesant had to do what Stuyvesant does best: suck your soul for what’s commonly known as the infamous SECOND SEMESTER OF JUNIOR YEAR. All caps are intended to demonstrate lethality. Unfortunately, I had neglected the skillet for too long, and the steak was rubbery, desiccated, and (not at all) well-done. When I was reminded that I needed to write not two but four articles to compensate for a couple of spreads I missed—my bad, gang—I seriously contemplated just taking the L and getting booted from the department. Logically speaking, how much could this extra investment in time bolster my college applications, arguably the most important part of junior year? 

It is doubtful, for instance, that being credited for a forbidden romance fanfic between Stuy and Brooklyn Tech will help my chances for any college at all; if anything, Common App will flag it as gross misuse of the First Amendment and put me on an auto-reject list sold to universities. However, I recognized that one must look beyond the near future. In asking myself the typical question, “Where do I want to be in the next 50 years?”, I realized that my ultimate goal that trumps all else is to have the most immense, jaw-dropping grandparent lore. My articles would enable me to tell my progeny in confidence that “Grandma is and has always been cool, and the proof’s in the digital footprint.” I may lose this battle, but I vow to win the war.  

Therefore, I hope the Humor editors can forgive me for this setback and will continue to allow me to be part of this publication. Please also forgive me for the rest of the filler that I will put in this article, as I would really, really like to get some sleep. 

Signing off with much love and gratitude,

Erin 

The filler: A long rant about what I could’ve done instead of writing this, no saltiness intended. Walk outside. Commune with nature. Speak with my friends and family. Explore the Jackson Heights Pride Parade. Cry. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Did I mention sleep? Transform into Batman and save Gotham—the city needs me. Retire from high school. Join the circus. Open up a Strawberry Strawberry because why must only a Mango Mango exist? Replenish my brainrotted humor supply by doomscrolling. Save the world with the power of friendship. Free the Spanish learners from the wrath of the big green bird. Become an alpha male and decide to live in the woods. Please, I beg of you, editors. Unchain me from this Google Doc. I am bereft—I have been robbed of my thoughts, my rights, my individuality, my hopes and dreams, my humanity. Just. Let. Me. Go.