I had almost been kidnapped and committed multiple murders, but the story hadn't ended.
As promised, the second part to our kidnapping story—plus, a 2022 send-off.
Following a whirlwind evening, we jumped into a completely different but similarly nightmarish experience: school. I'm under the assumption that my violence ensured my siblings' safety, but I hadn't been given the option to confirm.
I'm sitting closer to the middle of a room. It looked to be a general college or grad school classroom, with seats ascending in rows from the front. Beside me was someone I can't recognize in real life, but from my perception was supposedly a close friend.
From the things I'd observed around me, I could conclude we were at an extremely artsy—and downright odd—school.
First, my professor stands up-front yapping about "the art process"; basically giving us a rundown on what and where to be in order to refine this "process". I just remember hearing "process" an uncomfortable amount of times—has your brain been combusted yet?
My coursemates are all dressed as though they've just spent hours making connections at Villa Mabrouka for the sake of said process. I've never seen that many glasses in one space in my life—and I'm a science girl.
Third, I'm looking at the design of the room and it's all intentional neutrals, open, expansive windows, and polished white oak tables. Somebody was definitely paying a pretty penny to be there—not me though. I seemed a bit too confused.
In the midst of my trying to figure out what was going on, I realize that I'm being called on to let the class know what day and at what location a Warhol–type figure visited a space—yes, a space—that changed his artistic direction and hence shaped current culture. None of that gibberish is embellished.
I was, as mentioned, lost, and had no immediate answer. However, this is obviously not my first time in this class, because I'm familiar with this event. I proceed to flip through this amazing textbook that reads more like a coffee table experience. I pinpoint this location and a day that was definitely the correct answer. Alas...it was not.
My hipster friend perks up and also guesses incorrectly—like, girl, if your friend got the answer wrong, don't be an ass and try answering correctly. I don't know if that's part of the official friendship code, but it's common friendship sense at this point.
Eventually, the truth is revealed by another nerd. Our art-hoe professor proceeds to recommend we visit this place to enhance—you guessed it—our process. In summary, I'm in school in New York City.
To save me from this process, mother nature curses me with my period. I get up as covertly as I can and head out. When I reached a window adjacent to the projected discussion material up front, I lean in, asking for permission to be excused. My professor is confused—and honestly, so am I, I'm already 3.5/4ths out of reach—and tells me to continue.
I enter a gigantic bathroom, divided into sections of showers, a general changing area, sinks, and a designated "Talk Space". It's coated in different shades of baby blue; walls, countertops, sinks, stalls, showers, all of it. It was kind of fantastic. As soon as I'm in the stall, I'm met with a group of tall TikTok women—baggy jeans or micro skirts, all crop tops of varying y2k styles, and the likes—having their little kiki session. I can't maintain any privacy because I guess this school leaves giant, human-sized gaps where the stall doors latch. I can see everything happening outside—so one can assume they're also getting a show from me. I'm trying to be stealthy, but can't get anything done, so I head back to my class. It turned out I returned too late and all classes had ended. The entire hallway is filled with people and I decide to sandwich my way back to the bathroom.
To my shock, I'm met with a completely filled space. Except, now there are also frat boys everywhere. A nightmare. All spaces are now the aforementioned "Talk Space".
I picked up from conversations that we were in designated hours where all genders were allowed to occupy whatever bathrooms they preferred. We had a really chic name for it, but I can't recall, unfortunately. It was clearly a popular and well-liked concept because not a single person there could calm down about it. I'm now awkwardly standing around and wondering what I was going to do about my period.
There's not much time for me to figure that out though, because suddenly I'm in a fantastical, high-end retail store. Fit with three shopping sections, each lit in different neon lighting. Imagine Demi Lovato's house, but fitted with clothes everywhere—a Demi Lovato-ed Nordstrom.
Each section was further divided to display different brands—all high-end. However, Saint Laurent seemed to be launching a capsule collection of sorts as they got a separate room that was themed to the nines. Their space was fitted with black accent chairs and furniture, bronzey-brown piping built into the wall for racks, and an array of black, white, and grey clothes and accessories detailed with burgundy piping.
Imagine my anger when I realized we were concluding our close-down (specifically two hours later), yet our doors had been opened back up, with gazillions of people streaming in. The music suddenly switches on, indicating to these gremlin visitors that business has resumed—very retail-centric issues. To exacerbate things, the culprits were a bunch of racially diverse TikTok teenagers—plus Hunter Schaffer and Bella Thorne. Don't ask, I don't know.
These TikTok nuisances—again outfitted in baggy jeans and cropped tees—were all laying in a dogpile, for whatever reason, having the time of their lives while I stood fuming, observing the scene. I walk up to Hunter and friends and ask why they've opened up the doors to invite the ruin that was currently taking place in our store. In response, I got complete nonchalance as though they were under the influence of something I was definitely about to knock out of their systems.
I attempt to have them begin to work every section back into order by dividing responsibilities, but they're not the most responsive and move very lackadaisically. Using the same amount of motivation I had during my earlier murder spree, I walked up to the door and not-so-politely asked everyone to exit the space.
Finally, the room quickly begins to clear and, with much frustration brewing beneath my skin, I shut the doors and lock them. I then slowly turn around to face my team.
My dream gets semi-lost in the sauce at this point. I would like your help in proposing the ending I never got.
Here's my guess: Based on earlier events, I can assume more people passed away, but one can never be sure. How are all these connected?
Take away: Don't meddle with my family...or my store?—we'll go with the spaces I occupy.
Also, I'm not sure why I currently don't run this sort of store??? If anyone has a space like this, I volunteer to help you run it for free. Please. It sounds like a dream (oh, look at that double entendre) and I promise, I won't off anyone.
See you in the new year, when we will begin a fantastical 2023.
Love, CM.