I have a confession. I have lice.

I’ll set the scene for you:

I’m sitting on the fake hardwood floor of my cinder block dorm room, head between my knees and hair dripping insecticide down my neck. The computer is playing a tinny version of a Mumford & Sons song, and my bed is stripped bare to the shiny plastic mattress. My roommate is behind me, knees around my sides, legs radiating an uncomfortable heat against my body.

And she’s going through my hair, section by tiny section, methodically removing the nits that have adhered themselves to my hair. I feel her searching fingers pause for a moment and then there’s a sharp tug. She’s found one then.

We’ve been like that for 2 hours now, but neither of us has said anything for at least 45 minutes.

And Mumford & Sons plays on.

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I’m not going to lie. It’s dehumanizing. As I’m sitting here typing this, there are insects crawling around on my head, laying eggs and sucking my blood. I try not to think about it too much.

When I imagined college, I did not imagine myself in the shower vigorously scrubbing lice killing shampoo into my hair, chemical-smelling suds dripping down onto my shower shoes.

It’s not a good time, and, to be honest, I really wish it hadn’t happened. The entire process takes up time that I really don’t have, and I feel guilty asking Zoë to take time out of her life to help me.

I’m kind of pissed off actually. Like, why me?

I know who gave it to me, and even though she didn’t know she had lice when she put her head on my shoulder in GEOG 121, it’s hard to not feel a little bit resentful. I’m fighting that though. I really am.

I’m trying to think of a silver lining to end this post on, but I really don’t have one.