I’m pretty sure Fleabag and The Fordham Ram changed my life. I’m only half kidding. 

Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s monologue in season two, much like my friends around the copy table, made me feel seen in a way I never thought was possible:

“I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning… I want someone to tell me what to believe in, who to vote for, and who to love, and how to tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong.”

“Fleabag” was the first time in my life that I saw someone who seemed just as lost, insecure and worried as me, and was brave enough to actually admit it. The second time was when I, after sharing my insecurities through thinly-veiled hypothetical questions for the critically-acclaimed production night philosophical debates, became silently relieved to hear those same insecurities courageously and unapologetically echoed over 11 p.m. cups of tea by people I had met only a few months prior. This From the Desk is a love letter to all of you, the inspirations in my life, signed by the eternally grateful, eternally lost assistant copy chief who can’t quite seem to figure it all out. 

I went into this year thinking I would no longer see myself in “Fleabag.” I needed to have a more sophisticated version of the “Red (Taylor’s Version)” fall of 2021 — hopefully a fall that’s Lana Del Rey and “Stranger in the Alps” coded, with painted nails and dark brown eyeshadow and black mini skirts and platform Dr. Martens and perfect hair and even more perfect red wine. Senior me would be mysterious, sarcastic, finish her readings well before she goes to copy night and refuse to care what people think about her. If I can emulate this girl, the one who’s perfectly put together, who knows everything she wants in life and isn’t afraid to reach out and seize it before it slips from her fingertips — if I can pretend to be her, then maybe the rest will fall into place.

But my left hand is useless, so I couldn’t paint the nails on my right hand if you promised me a million bucks. I used to be good at eyeshadow, but now it looks like a nine-year-old had her first sip of Mountain Dew and went to town. Skirts look weird on me. My Dr. Martens hurt like hell because I haven’t broken them in. I can’t tame my Lebanese hair. And I hate red wine. But junior year me was met with fibromyalgia flares, chronic stress and five-hour sleeps, so I can’t go back to being her, either. 

Even if I could become the ever-elusive, Lana Del Rey-coded dream girl, I can’t even find a matching pair of socks. So yes, “Fleabag.” I think I’ve been getting it wrong, too. 

I’ve been getting it wrong since freshman year, and it doesn’t seem like I’ll be getting it right anytime soon. I’ve gone to more club intro meetings than I can count. I’ve dropped classes that I desperately wanted to take but couldn’t find the energy to keep up with, and begrudgingly stuck with ones I hated. I often wonder if I might have changed my career path had I explored other things I find interesting. Would I have made a good theologian? Anthropologist? Cybersecurity analyst? It pains me that I’ll never know. I changed my major from psychology to DTEM, declared a psychology minor and then changed it to film and television a year later. I thought I would have a plan by now, but I don’t. At the very least I know I wouldn’t have made a good psychologist. 

I found stability in a few places, but most of all in the Ram. Having joined almost halfway through my college career, I felt I was too late. There were already established friendships, inside jokes and memories, and I was scared I’d walk into B-52 and be met with the deafening silence of shifting glances between best friends that say “Oh. She’s here.” So, in perfect Taylor Swift “Mastermind” fashion, I engaged in a series of calculated maneuvers to help my case. I brought vanilla milkshakes on my first copy night (a Pavlovian scheme inspired by my previously useless psychology classes), I joined their intramural volleyball team and I sent one too many anxiety-induced texts after we hung out to tell them I had a really great time. Maybe they would’ve preferred chocolate shakes, but it worked either way. Amidst my indecisiveness, fear and confusion, for the last year and a half, I’ve always been able to count on the Puglsey’s Pizza of Mondays, the philosophical debates of Tuesdays and the unconditional love and support of everyone at the Ram. 

To Hannah, thank you for putting up with me in London; I hope that our late nights at Queen of Hoxton made up for my late morning sleeping habits. To Michael, thank you for the kindest post-semester letters I’ve ever read. To Nicole D., thank you for being the only other person I know who’s on Wordle TikTok. To Nora, thank you for keeping me calm during late production night craziness by playing Minecraft with me. To Jamison, thank you for telling me when my “your mom” jokes don’t quite hit. To Nicole B., thank you for being the Hot Priest to my Fleabag this Halloween. To Isabel, thank you for the perfect day in Brighton. To Kari, thank you for making me laugh from across the room. To those who aren’t on staff anymore, Hanif and Amanda, thank you for our guitar jam sessions, and thank you for being my off-campus shuttle buddy. 

The much-dreaded question of after college unfortunately grows closer. I don’t even want to think about what a post-Mugz life looks like. But the dream as of now is to be a television writer, though I’m a little wary about the industry. So maybe I’ll work longer than expected as a production assistant. Or maybe I’ll be an editor for a newspaper (I know who’s rooting for this option — his name rhymes with Bichael). Maybe, after struggling with the instability of a creative career and disheartened by my inability to write a show as genius as Fleabag, I’ll go to law school to be an entertainment lawyer. 

I have absolutely no idea, but I’m starting to believe that’s okay. 

I think the secret is that everyone is lost, even and especially if they don’t say it. Learn to be comfortable with chaos and uncertainty. Learn to take risks just for the sake of taking them. Allow yourself to be a little less Lana Del Rey and a little more Fleabag. Allow yourself to be lost and wander, because you’ll eventually end up exactly where you’re meant to be. 

Maybe you’ll end up at the copy table. And that’s pretty good too.