Night one. While I wandered the hallway trying to find the lifelong friends I had been promised, a Bay-Area blond nearly toppled me over as he zoomed down the hall.
“‘Pitch Perfect’ one, two or three?” he asked. I admitted I had never seen any of them. He was astounded. So, the next day, he dragged a group of us into his dorm to watch the movie. As we laughed, sang and cringed, I talked to the people around me. I met Ben, the stubborn academic with a soft side. I met Harry, the goofy boba addict. I met energetic Sara, stylish Neeva, Swiftie Brandon and Dylan, the Californian with my sense of humor.
It wasn’t long before we were walking down the streets of Chicago improvising a cappella melodies. We blasted the soundtrack and hosted dance parties. Whenever there was an awkward silence, we were quick to fill it with the iconic “zoom zoom zoom” intro from the audition scene. Whatever we did, “Pitch Perfect” had a stake in it.
We loved it so much, it only made sense to write a story about it. I DMed the director of the film and squealed in the dining hall when he actually responded. It was, put simply, really cool; as I talked to him on the phone about his work, the people I had met because of it were right down the hall.
Just like the “Cups” song says, I’m going to miss this when I’m gone.
