Anvaila Emerson, a vibrant party lover, juggles her crush on Kevin Diaz, the basketball team captain, and the return of mysterious Austin Smith to senior year. Caught in a high school drama, Anvaila faces the complexities of emotions, friendships, a...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I’m currently in a state of hangry, which, for those of you who are unfamiliar, is an unfortunate fusion of hunger and anger. A marriage of necessity, if you will. You see, my stomach has decided to wage war against me, sending angry signals to my brain that say, "Feed me, or else." Meanwhile, my brain is caught up in the whirlwind of frustration, making the simplest tasks feel like an insurmountable mountain. How do I write this email when all I can think about is that slice of pizza from three days ago?
But here’s the thing—you’re probably wondering who I am. Well, that’s a complicated question, but for the sake of time (and the gnawing sensation in my gut), let’s just say I’m someone who doesn’t function well on an empty stomach. And why am I hangry so early in the morning, you ask? Because, in my infinite wisdom, I decided last night that skipping dinner was a good idea. Maybe I was feeling noble, like I could survive on sheer willpower and a sense of superiority over my hunger. Spoiler alert: I was wrong.
Now, here we are, at the crack of dawn, and I’m locked in this existential battle between grabbing a breakfast sandwich and continuing to suffer in the name of discipline. My brain says, “You have things to do,” while my stomach counters with, “You won’t get anything done without me, buddy.” It’s like an epic showdown, except there’s no real winner—just an ever-growing sense of impending doom.
So, if I snap at you or make a face that resembles a cross between confusion and rage, just know—it’s not personal. It’s hunger. Or the anger. Or both. All I know is that the first bite of food that passes my lips today will feel like a victory for humanity.
Or at least, for me.
Hey, I’m Vinny, the name everyone likes to call me, but my grandmother—bless her soul—decided to saddle me with the name Anvaila Emerson. Now, I get it, you’re probably thinking, “Anvaila? Really?” Trust me, I’ve been asking the same question since I learned to talk. Apparently, when my mom was pregnant with me, my great-grandmother, Anvaina, passed away, and in honor of her, my grandmother thought it was fitting to give me this unique name. My parents, particularly my dad, were all for it. They loved it so much that my fate was sealed before I was even born—three months in, and boom, Anvaila it is.
