In 2009, I was a freshman at Emory, and it rained for what felt like forever. I came to the all too foreign South, delusional with dreams of metropolitan city life that could never compare to home, my nose in the air, looking for sun. All it did was rain that semester. Floods and pools instead of puddles. I hated it. I almost transferred. I wanted out.

It is the second month of 2013, and I will graduate in exactly three months to the day. It’s raining. It’s been raining, it’s raining now, and I don’t know how long it will continue to rain because every time I check the forecast it changes by the time I’ve left my house in shorts and flip flops or, conversely, too many layers.

I like Atlanta in the sun, and summer rain wasn’t terrible, but this is dreary. We are waterlogged, I think, and the rain is coming out of my ears while I’m starting to lose my hope that the sun will shine and the quad will dry. Why am I always writing about rain?

And considering the rain, it is unfortunate that I haven’t been sleeping, and I can’t find my umbrella and I haven’t had the time to buy a new one, so I’m soaked. I look around Cox Hall before it fills up on a Wednesday morning, and I’m not the only one without sleep and without an umbrella, as the people in the cozy computer corners drip into pillow puddles as they sprawl across their keyboards and snore. It looks like we all have a little bit of the blues.


By Chloe Olewitz