Ego Death in Harnwell Package Room

I awake to a horrifying email:

UniversityofPennsylvaniaResidentialServiceshasreceivedapackageforyouPleasecomebytheHarnwellPackageRoomatyourearliestconvenienceandretrieveyourpackagePleasebringyourUPennIDforproofofidentityWewillnotreleasethepackagetoanyoneotherthantherecipientunlessotherwisearranged.

I always tell myself I’ll never return to that fluorescent purgatory. But once again, I fall victim to my own greed – another impulsive TikTok shop purchase drags me back to my dreaded dystopia.

I bid my roommates a teary farewell, knowing I may never return.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe there will be no line. Maybe my PennCard swipe will go through on my first try. Maybe I will leave the same person I was when I entered, dignity unscathed. But what is my optimism if not foolishness?

Gravity pulls me downstairs to the hellscape that is the Harnwell basement. I am greeted by the familiar blinding lights, whirring fans, and hum of FM radio. I step into the usual dance of the Mailroom, mindlessly taking my place in a queue stretching miles. Time is frozen.

Emerging from my haze, a voice cuts through. 

Swipe.

I’m at the front of the line. It’s showtime, and I am the reluctant performer.

Swipe your card.

I oblige.

Can you swipe your card again?

Again, please.

Picture facing you.

Uhh… uhh…

Swipe again.

Again.

One more time.

It didn't go through, can you swipe it again?

Oh my God. It’s happening.

And suddenly I am nothing but a vessel through which the mailroom operates. I realize that the line has disappeared behind me. The package room is gone. Did I even order anything? 

Fuckkkkk.

I walk starry-eyed back to my dorm. Maybe one day I’ll stop dropping acid before picking up my mail. Or maybe I’ll just start getting it delivered to Hill.