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Maggie Vaughn and Jyllian Foster / Gavel Media

Lovesick: The Death of a Bachelor

The Gavel's Diatribe acts as the satirical medium for short rants over topics ranging from complete triviality to utmost importance.

The advent of Spring brings many things. Longer days. Warmer air. The gradual melting of my ice cold heart. 

Seasonal changes also serve as a metaphor for the fleeting nature of college. Life is a series of transitions, each one marked by its own unique signifier–a teething ring, a driver’s license, a bachelor’s degree in business analytics and finance. As the calendar begins to stretch past snow days, one can only acknowledge the nearing of commencement. Even if your name isn’t called this May, your time is coming.

All hope is not lost, however. Many will walk away with more than their degrees: memories of Walsh 8-mans, long nights on Foster Street, every loss witnessed in Alumni Stadium among countless other moments that make up four years at Boston College. Lots of friendships survive after graduation too, so that’s something. However, the real prize lies with those that walk away with love.

Let me take a beat to acknowledge that there are so many deeply fulfilling things about college and life aside from love and sex. This is all so important, yet incredibly boring and not nearly as readable.

Back to love!

As we all inch towards our inevitable fate as students at BC, some seek this more eternal souvenir. A love match, a potential mate, a long-term partner which can be posted on social media. 

I would venture to say most are successful. The incredibly vague, unsourced statistic that 60 percent of Boston College alumni marry each other supports my claim. So does the continual shrinking dating pool at this college each spring.

As the beginning of the semester is traded for midterms, so are situationships for relationships. I am cruelly reminded of this as I scroll through Instagram to see launches go from soft to graphene. It’s astonishing actually. Last semester’s crushes are taken, every app has gone stale, and the only cute guy in any of my classes is 40, balding, and wearing a gold band.

I couldn’t even hear the boy in the Maloney elevator talking to me over the Gregorian chanting in my head.

I smile, nod and presumably pull out an Airpod.

“Yes?” I ask sweetly, cringing at my enthusiasm and the way my head naturally cocks to the side. 

“What floor?” 

His response takes me by surprise. I am obviously going to the fourth floor, babe. This is a strike against him, but his smile is a point for. 

He is so into me. 

I follow him up the O’Neill stairs and across the quad before we part ways. He ducks into Fulton, naturally, right as I get a glimpse of the tag on his backpack. An athlete! Before class begins I’ve found him on the track roster, MileStat, and LinkedIn. Looking good! I spend class daydreaming about what will come of our newly minted union. Our kids will be the funniest members of the cross country team. 

When I send my friends his Instagram on my way home, they are quick to point out the girlfriend in his profile picture. I walk stone-eyed, right past 2K, straight to Hell. 

I am in mourning, but it seems like the rest of you are good! Congratulations.   

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Enthusiastically from Southwest Virginia. Lover. Hater. Fan of four letter words.

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