Did You Finish Your Borg?

By Rocky Rūb and Maya Lerman

Illustration by Selin Ho

Saturday, April 4, 2026

5:00 a.m.:

Affirmative: I’ve just concluded my five-step bedtime skincare routine and am tucking myself into bed after a lovely night at BASEMENT. There’s something serendipitous about the fact that the mushrooms have exited my system at the exact moment I wanted to go to sleep! And it’s not every day that a gay boy finds Trade with free K in Brooklyn! Well, maybe it is everyday, but because the trade turned out to be my LitHum professor, I got a free ride home! 

Today’s Dominant Feeling: Lucky & Grateful. 

Negative: I jolt awake. There is no time for sleep; my deadline fast approaches. I return to my frenzied scribbles—a few finishing touches, and he’ll be perfect.

6:00 a.m.:

A: Good morning world! I didn’t sleep a wink because I was so excited to see Waka Flocka Flame this morning. And thank God, because the only Fake-mink I want is the faux-fur I stole from the coat check at Playhouse last winter.  

Enjoying a crisp, cold shower seltzer to start the day. High Noons are my favorite, but I gave up buying alcohol for Lent so I’ll settle for the Topo Chico Hard Seltzers that my suitemate has been buying ever since our spring break trip to CDMX. God, I love her. She even wrote “DO NOT TOUCH” on each individual can because she knows how much I have to drink to get a buzz ever since I surgically enhanced my liver so I could still have fun while on both Accutane and Zoloft. 

6:45 a.m.:

N: My single in Harmony has seen no visitors in months. Recipes cover every inch of wall. Stacks upon stacks of Poland Spring bottles reach the ceiling in myriad colors never before conceived of by human eyes. The floors are permanently stained with a thick, sticky, inexplicable substance. 

In a feverish state, I begin my preparations. The deadly amalgam of noxious fumes, sleep deprivation, and the Fakemink blasting through my headphones produces an intoxicating effect—or maybe that’s the copious amounts of shots I’ve taken. 

7:45 a.m.: 

A: Got stuck in the shower because as the water touched my skin, I was hit by a second wave of last night’s mushrooms. While I slunk along the shower tiles, pressing my face against the drain, I thought, Will I ever collapse the distance between me and those who I love? My roommates slam themselves through the door and yell at me for taking the bathroom for so long, which sobers me up real fast. The whole house is mad now. 

Affirmations for the rest of the day: I am just as human as Waka Flocka and he is just as human as me. 

8:00 a.m.:

N: Four quarts. Eight pints. 16 cups. 128 ounces. I watch myself pour in third person, the ghastly liquids equaling to precisely one gallon of perfectly curated, vomit-brown elixir. I screw on the lid of my Creation, my Adam, the primordial juice out of which we came and to which we will return! 

Now, the final touch: Sharpie in hand, in methodical lettering, I name my Creature for the muse whose beauty spurred my scientific endeavors: Jacob Eborgi.

I stand back, lost in the majesty of my work. The murky liquid has a strange, reflective quality. In its depths I make contact with a pair of eyes, yellowed from swirling specs of Sparking Tropical Vibe Celcius. Its stare—so human! I lurch back in surprise, lose my balance over cans of Cutwater, and slip in a puddle of vodka/RedBull/JJ’s mango slushie. My vision goes dark. 

8:30 a.m.:

A: Since everyone is mad at me about occupying the bathroom for so long, they elect that I trudge all the way from the penthouse in EC to the haunted halls of Harmony to collect our friend Frankie who’s been unresponsive for the last few weeks. If it wasn’t a campus holiday, I’d be more upset that they’ve been ignoring my texts. BUT, I’m gonna need their supply of quaaludes if I’m gonna get through the day; and they’re the only person in SEAS that I’ve ever met. 

As I arrive, Frankie’s door is slightly ajar, and a mysterious green fume emanates from behind it. I knock on the door twice. No answer. I’d respect their privacy but I’ve literally never done that before so I swing the door open to find a grotesque creature lurched over Frankie’s desk. Turns out the green fumes were coming from his armpits. One of his hands rests atop the lid to a borg, glowing in front of him. Jacob Eborgi is its name, which makes me laugh (and a little horny). 

I yank the borg, text Frankie about the intruder, and meet my friends to hotbox the firetruck with the masc-firefighters at 113th street. 

9:45 a.m.:

A: Turns out “masc” is not synonymous with “top.” 

10:00 a.m.:

A: Me and the rest of the girls march to the AXO house to freshen up. A sister that I’ve never met tells me that I look like Nicole Kidman, so I let her do a line of coke off my ass. We cheers our borgs and she leans down to the coffee table for another bump. I ask her what the name of her borg is and she says, “Justice 4 Borgy!” I ask her who Borgy is. “Diddy.” I swiftly leave the AXO house.

10:30 a.m.: 

N: When I come to, the borg is gone. Was it just a nightmare? No—a sticky residue in a gallon-shaped silhouette remains engrained on my table. 

Then, like the knells of death, my phone dings. missed u at the pre. there was a bricky man sleeping next to ur borg. grabbed it so he didn’t try anything funny. ilyyy. get here b4 we finish it!! 

The thought of my creation, roaming the annals of Frat Row, passing from lip to lip invades my mind. Fury surges through my caffeine-addled veins. 

With shaking hand and spinning head, I prepare for the chase. I move to adorn my Perfect Bacchanal Fit—jorts, Adidas sambas, my pink “I <3 Fakemink” t-shirt—but there’s no time. So I sprint out the door in my stained labcoat and birkenstocks, half-sober and fully borg-less, cursing myself for my sin of pride. 

Don Q was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.

11:00 a.m.:

A: I’ve made it to the front steps of the SigEp house and cut people with my sharp hip bones in order to move closer to the door. Two pledges guard the entrance shouting, “THE BROTHERHOOD HAS SPOKEN: GIRLS ONLY, NO MORE GAYS,” but get real quiet when I arrive face-to-face with them. They don’t know what to make of my baby-tee. As they struggle to figure out my pronouns, I lift my leg high into the air and place it over the shoulder of one of the guards, taking a seductive sip out of Jacob Eborgi, but the pledge does not like this, and now I feel like a cougar. His sexual confusion stirs in him so deeply that he starts to cry, and while the other pledge whips out his phone to take a photo of his brother’s tears, I rush behind them, crashing through the glass door. 

11:15 a.m.: 

A: I’ve become the leader of a cult. When the glass shattered, all frat standards of a girl-to-gay ratio shattered with it. The mob of drunk undergrads on 113th street floods into the backyard, offering me libations of all elements (liquid, gas, solid) as they pass by. Everyone is fawning over Jacob Eborgi, but only those who compliment my outfit get to taste him. 

N: I have combed the neighborhood for hours, and that damn twink won’t pick up the phone. Just as I am about ready to trade my party-girl dreams for a shower and a career making Agent Orange for the US government, a sign from God appears—well, more like tumbles—before me. A writhing mass of polo shirts and aviator glasses spills onto the sidewalk from one of the brownstones. Some are weeping. Others are praying. A frat brother grabs my shoulders and screams in tongues. I shove him off, and he proceeds to blanket the frightened line of freshmen in a coat of projectile vomit. 

Jacob Eborgi is close. As the line scatters, all that stands between me and the borg of my dreams are three burly goons (who seem surprisingly unbothered by the whole ordeal). I clear my throat and approach, curving the edges of my mouth in my best attempt at a flirty grin. Their faces contort in horror. One looks like he’s about to faint. “Dude, you reek.”

11:45 a.m.:

A: A very fine gentleman starts talking to me wearing a beige YankeesXMoMA hat and the Mexico 66 Onitsuka Tigers—DREAM—but then he asks me to venmo him for the Uber last night and I knock back his hat and realize he’s my Lit Hum professor, again. 

Mood = ruined. Balls = blue. I leave the backyard for a better scene. 

12:00 p.m.:

A: I’ve decided it’s time to reach the barricade for Waka, but the word of my Legend at SigEp has not yet made its way to the lawns, and I’m already missing the constant stream of attention. A CUEMS medic notices my frown and asks me if I’ve had enough water. This pisses me off so I swing Jacob Eborgi at his head, knocking him unconscious. I’m scared that he’ll wake up and remember my face, so I kick him again for good measure. I notice a freshman girl with my same waist size, and give her Jacob Eborgi.

12:30 p.m.:

A: I realize that I haven’t peed once during the entire day and go to the Butler fifth floor bathroom. 

N: I wander the Butler walkway like an aimless vagrant. This must be my punishment, for aspiring to be greater than nature would allow. 

“Frankie!” an Angel’s voice calls out to me from behind the gated lawns. It’s Elizabeth from Orgo, the only Barnard student to ever smile at me. She’s wearing a black lacey dress over baggy jeans, with a digital camera hanging from her silver studded belt. She’s so beautiful, I almost forget all about Jacob Eborgi.

That’s when I notice—the Creature has gotten to her first. I watch in horror as she raises the glowing juice of my own creation to her lips. “NOOO!” I scream. I try to jump the fence to intervene, but a Public Safety officer holds me back. 

It’s too late. Elizabeth collapses. Jacob Eborgi rolls in the grass. I rush to her, cradling her limp form in my arms. Before I know it, a horde of Public Safety, CUEMS workers, and nosey partygoers surround us. 

A Public Safety Officer moves to confiscate the borg. Possessed by instinct, I toss Elizabeth off me and lunge at him, taking control of the borg with the agility of a pro-football player. I make a mad dash for the mosh pit.

1:00 p.m.:

N: Luckily for me, Public Safety isn’t so used to running. I blend in with the crowd, hiding Jacob Eborgi beneath the folds of my lab coat, where he cannot harm another soul. 

No, I cannot blame Jacob Eborgi. For I, indeed, was the true murderer.

1:15 p.m.:

A: I wake up with a bang! Turns out I was peeing for so long that I fell asleep and hit my head against the wall. What time is it??? HAVE I MISSED HIM????  I trip over my pants which had fallen at my ankles, knocking my head on the floor with another bang. Everything is foggy, but as I pull myself up to the sink, I see myself in the mirror (though, only barely given my petite frame) and realize: I am just as spectacular as Waka Flocka and he is just as spectacular as me!!!

With Jacob Eborgi’s electric elixir running through my veins, I push with all my might through the Butler entrance doors and sprint between the lawns to the Bacchanal stage. “WAKAAAAAAAAAAA,” I scream. But the cry for attention only notifies the CUEMS medic I struck to my whereabouts. And with a single point of his finger, three Public Safety officers and McGruff the Crime Dog tackle me to the ground. 

N: Creator and creation have been reunited; but at what cost? I banish these thoughts from my mind, take a deep breath, and ready myself for my first taste of paradise. But before the liquid graces my lips, the sixteenth airhorn blast in a row and an unsettling lack of a British accent strikes me with dread. 

“WHERE IS FAKEMINK?” I ask the girl next to me over the din. She plugs her nose and blows a cloud of Miami Mint into my face. I am jostled about in the crowd, clinging to Jacob Eborgi with every shred of my strength. The stage is empty…

Before I know what’s happening, Geek Bar Girl has her camera pointed at me. I freeze, then feel the cool plastic handle ripped from my grip from behind. I whip around and make eye contact with the thief, his eyes wild with evil. 

“FLOCKA!” he yells. Before I can make a clever retort, the villain vanishes, then re-emerges on stage, Jacob Eborgi in hand. My body lunges before I have a chance to think.

2:15 p.m.:

A: I don’t remember anything that happened between getting tackled and being cuffed to this bench in Public Safety Jail. But I’m really freaked out by how much it smells like beef jerky in here. I’ve demanded a phone call, but the officer on duty says that this isn’t a real jail and I’ll be released when I’ve sobered up and written a few apologies. 

N: Elizabeth is gone. Waka Flocka Flame is pressing charges. My cellmate keeps trying to twerk through his restraints. 

I watch, defeated, as Public Safety pours Jacob Eborgi down the drain. My life’s work, borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.