Below are the prompts and my responses to the Brown Residential College application.
Describe your past life, elaborating as much as possible.
Life was fine. It was simple. And then on one foggy fall morning, with the leaves rustling and the cows barking, the aliens took me. Don’t ask me how I remember these details, because I don’t know how I do. I think the aliens wanted me to remember.
I was a short, stout woman in the mid 1990s with sixty years to my name when it happened. All those claims since about people being probed, flying saucers, Taiwan being a sovereign state – they’re all false. Eisenhower paid people to come out with these outrageous statements in an effort to justify not blowing up Mt. Rushmore (it really is an eyesore, but Eisenhower argued that the aliens need a big visual depiction of our leaders, which appeased the critics).
I wasn’t taken to an aircraft. Quite the opposite, I was taken to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. When I asked if they were born there, they matter-of-factly stated that they had never been born at all – they’ve always “been”. The planet they came from was much better they said, but the lines for Disney World were shorter on Earth, so this is where they stayed.
I didn’t understand at first why I wasn’t immediately pulverized by the pressure at the bottom of the trench, but the aliens explained to me that it was because God has a wicked sense of humor, and playing Under Pressure as loud as you can is all you need to stay safe. Go figure.
Although I enjoyed watching South Park with the aliens while they asked questions like “Are the Canadians actually like that?” (yes), they had a mission for me. They explained to me the plague in our society, one that impacts them heavily now that they reside on our planet, and what I needed to do. I was ready.
I was told to eliminate Tupac. Not because Tupac was the plague, but because eliminating him would set off a chain reaction that would finally rid the world of Oasis. Like Jesus Christ, the aliens explained, if we have to hear Wonderwall one more time we’re actually going to destroy this planet.
They broke the news to me that Tupac was the ghostwriter for literally all 90s music, and was the creative mind behind Thomas the Tank Engine in Thomas & Friends. I explained my reservations about killing Tupac – I myself felt the urge for another season of Thomas & Friends despite being a 60-year-old woman. However, they calmly explained that Tupac had taken 100mg of Adderall one summer day and wrote the entire script for the shows next 15 seasons, so all would be good in the hood.
They told me another ghostwriter would take his place – someone with better lyrics than you’RE mY wonDERwaLLLLL. The ghostwriter for the last part of the 1990s they revealed would be a collection of water damaged (or demented) Tickle Me Elmos that would whisper phrases at 2AM every day, producing hits in the future such as My Name Is by Eminem with innovative lyrics like Hi kids! Do you like violence?
This future seemed brighter, so I did as I was told. My memory of that fateful day is fuzzy, and I believe that’s when my past life ceased to exist. I don’t know if the aliens killed her, or if it was just my time to die, but I live now forever with the memory that I killed Tupac.
You have an ILLEGAL magical pet in your room. What is it and how would you hide it from the authorities.
On Saturday, the 25th day of August, I meandered into my portal in Brown with my parents in tow. Lugging along 18 years of my life compressed into two suitcases and a mini fridge, I reached the door to my room and glanced backwards at my slow and aging parents. My eyes still on the stairs, I opened the door but am immediately greeted with a faint misting of water and a No! Bad dog! in an uncannily familiar voice. Floating above my door frame upside down was seemingly coked out former Pink Floyd member Roger Waters holding a spray bottle.
Got to go! I yelped as I backed out and closed the door. My parents were still not up the stairs (haha, old people), and so I raced down towards them to collect my luggage. After explaining that my roommate is there and wanting to help move me in as an ‘exercise in trust’, my dad mumbled something about liberals and we said our goodbyes.
Rushing back up the stairs, I stood outside the door unsure of what to do next. I reached out towards the door and as my hand hit the knob I heard an OOOOOOOOOH BABEE, DON’T LEAVE ME NOW which radiated throughout the portal. Scared and confused, I opened the door and rushed to close it.
Roger was on the floor now. He told me that he has not only transcended humanity, now having the powers of a god, but also that he is mine now. I’m understandably flustered, not least because the laws for slavery are kind of gray concerning people-gods, but I’m also hit with a wave of excitement.
Three years prior my dad refused to take me to see him on tour, but now he could perform for me every day. Suddenly an orchestra of sound filled the room and I was met with the hard hitting sounds from the intro to The Wall. The album continued its course, and I was into another OOOOOOOOH BABEE when my door swung right open. My roommate! He was actually someone I recognized from a compet— BANG. ROGER! WHY, WHAT, HOW???
Roger had materialized some sort of device, shooting a beam at my roommate! He was no longer here. After demanding an answer, Roger tells me that my roommate has been sent to Brony Hell. I ask what that meant and Roger explains that my roommate was carrying a My Little Pony poster, and that while it wasn’t Roger’s job to decide who goes to Heaven or Hell, he decides which part of Hell they go to. Seeing this as perfectly reasonable, I ask if he wanted to get coffee.
A great thing about having Roger Waters as a pet is that he appears normal in public. The best thing however is being able to watch him, each day, send someone new to Hell. One day we were in the tunnels between portals and we heard someone playing Dark Side of the Moon on shuffle, which, after snorting some cocaine to make himself feel better, caused Roger Waters to immediately send that person to the darkest and most sinister part of Hell.
Another day as we were walking down to The Corner Roger turned to face me and he asked a question. Do you enjoy the 1994 album The Division Bell? That album was released after he left the band.
I stop dead in my tracks. Uhh, yeah it’s one of my favorites. Darkness enveloped me and my body felt heavy. I collapsed on the concrete.
I awoke, sulfur filling my nostrils, immobile. My eyes flutter open and I struggle to understand my surroundings. No no no! This can’t be!
Oh but it is, boy.
I look to my left and see Jeffrey Dahmer. Am I in hell? A voice to my right responds with Well we sure aren’t at the Ritz Carlton.
Is that you, Tupac???
Yeah, I really shouldn’t have ghostwritten Wonderwall. I’m so, so sorry.
In the end, I didn’t need to hide Roger Waters from the authorities for long. Maybe it would have been even better if I didn’t. For if they caught me I may have been imprisoned, but here I was in the part of Hell reserved for humanity’s close to worst offenders (the worst being Pink Floyd shufflers). I publish this as a plea for help, and enclosed below is the address where you can find me and bring me home.
Jake Paul’s Clout Mansion, Calabasas, California.