8 am. I wake up, delighted for another day of classes at the Claremont Colleges. Looking over at my roommate, I notice something — November 19th, 2049. Mono complications. He looks back at me, confused by my glare. You see, I don’t ‘Gen Z Stare’ for the hell of it. I just can’t wrench my eyes away when I see the visions of hospital beds, car collisions, and zoo enclosures upon glancing at someone.
My morning at Pitzer goes as usual. The prophecies don’t change — I always get the same visions of a Jackass-style prank going wrong whenever I walk by the GBP, and all the foot infections from the “Barefoot in the Garden” yoga club. I walk through the mounds and see a new face death this time— December 12th, 2029: ate a Stiiizy pod. A lot of uncomfortable glances come my way as I stare vacantly ahead, mouth agape with drool.
I get to my class. Group presentation time! I’m only talking for about two minutes, but I get the immeasurable joy of standing at the front of the class for ten more. As I look through the sea of faces, visions flood my mind. February 10th, 2091: choking on elder care lunch. June 17, 2033: the “Guess the charger from mouth feel” TikTok challenge. April 3rd, 2051: Submarine Implosion. April 3rd, 2051: Submarine Implosion. April 4th, 2052: Submarine Implosion.
After class, the professor scolds me for “making the audience uncomfortable with my incessant staring”. He says to meet him during office hours so we can go over how to “connect with the audience” and “professionalism”. His words fall on deaf ears – all I see is May 26th, 2029: Yellow Angry Bird.
My next class, at CMC, couldn’t be more different — it’s hard to keep my eyes up in class knowing just how many of them are jumping out the windows of Wall Street during the next great recession — August 4th, 2041. It beats staring at the professor, though. His is truly awful: July 4th, 2038: Food poisoning from digging up Reagan’s grave and eating half his corpse before dying in necrophilic bliss.
During a quick bathroom break, I make sure to take a good look at myself in the mirror. As always, I am met with the same comforting visions. January 11th, 2046: drawn and quartered, destined to die after successfully completing six saw traps in the row. I’m crying, tears of joy, off to meet the big Yellow Angry Bird in the sky.
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Final Destination owes me millions.