If someone told me three years ago that I would live on campus my junior year I would have laughed in their face.

Well, actually, I would have cried. I was always under the impression that I would advance as I made the transition from freshman to sophomore, until I eventually would work myself up to becoming a responsible, self-assured 4.0 GPA senior. Of course, life has a way of slapping you in the face or, in my case, punching it. I won’t say what four-star, elegant residence I live in now, but I will mention that for every UCSD student that lives where I live now, there are 3.4 million rabbits who reside there as well.

If I trace my misery back to its roots, it all comes down to one person: my roommate from last quarter. Not only was she nice, fair and generous but she was also the type of person who would do your homework for you if you did not know how to do it. In short, my experience with her spoiled me. The next thing I knew, after shamelessly exploiting her for her excellent cooking skills, she mentioned that she was going abroad. Where did this leave me? In the dumps. Literally.

It was an awkward time to look for a roommate. All the students I knew were content with their living situation and did not want to help me on my escapade for a place to live. Not that I blame them. Finding a cool place to live in La Jolla is like expecting an A in Organic Chemistry: it simply does not happen. Well, at least to me, that is.

After searching online for several hours and contacting people who were certifiably crazy (as in one renter’s “”no -eating-chicken- in-the-house”” rule to a wannabe “”Ace Ventura”” woman with three dogs, a parakeet, a cat, among other things. I decided I had come to the inevitable: I would be living on my friends’ couches, patios, or any type of furniture that did not impale me).

Of course my parents were not too happy with the prospect of their friends discovering that I was a hobo, so they asked me to find out if UCSD would let me live on campus. However, I discovered that their concern did not come out of a well of parental love, but rather out of a cesspool of ulterior motives. After several hours of torture (I tied them up and forced them to listen to me talk for a couple of hours) they admitted that they wanted me to stay on campus so I would be encouraged to study more. (My bad study habits have been ingrained in me for twenty years, I doubt one quarter at UCSD would be the catalyst for me turning into an Einstein.)

But since I am a spoiled brat and they are paying my rent, I obliged. And lo and behold, the university, which has screamed bloody murder about the lack of housing space for returning freshmen, suddenly had several rooms available. Just my luck.

On my way to moving in my things into the apartment surrounded by 3.4 million rabbits, I couldn’t help feeling like this was a twisted case of deja vu. Because it turned out I was living in the same apartment building I lived in freshman year. And although I was not living in the same room (thank god! it had always reeked of urine, not mine by the way) it was spooky that I was going to live in apartment 13. Was this a higher power’s way of punishing me for having a crush on Chancellor Dynes?

Whatever it was, I had to msake peace with the fact that I was 20 years old and not living the life of Felicity. Instead, I am living the life of myself as a teenager. And that is definitely not exciting. I mean, I have a “”mom”” (my friendly and always chipper R.A.) I always have fresh, hot food (although sometimes not edible) available when the “”kitchen”” is open, and I have rules. Several rules. Enforced by strict “”parents”” (i.e. the administration and the RSOs). In short, I am the biggest 20-year-old dork at this institution. And if you take a look around, that is saying a lot.

There are perks of course. I mean the internet is fast at least. Oh yeah, and since I was deprived as a child, I think the free cable here is pretty nice too. But the cost of losing my dignity and living with my “”parents”” again? Ah … that’s priceless.