The following content is purely satirical and entirely fictional.
Speaking to Roch about the discovery of his pet rocks’ sentience, I came to realize that my own embattled love life may be cursed until I shuffle off this mortal coil.
Many know Professor Ignatius Roch as a kooky geology lecturer, but I know him as a drinking buddy. It was during a raucous night that he snuck into Terrace Club and first told me about his sentient pet rocks, or “friends,” as he calls them.
Acting on my duty as a distinguished member of The Daily PrintsAnything, I sat down with Roch to learn more about sedimentary sentience. Roch’s office is tucked into a back hallway under the stairs in Guyot’s basement. I met him seated on the floor with a large chunk of glistening rock salt, which he appeared to be cradling before noticing my entrance.
When asked about the origin of his collection, Roch mused, “In college, I started collecting rocks while high … on a mountain. The only thing high was the mountain, yeah …” Satisfied with his response, Roch stood up from the floor where he had been sitting cross-legged and grabbed a brown rock from the table.
“This is Rochelle,” Roch said eagerly. “I found her on the mountain that night, I guess that means we’ve known each other for 20 years.” Again, Roch’s words trailed off, seemingly lost in the consideration of his relationship with Rochelle.
“It’s just something I have come to accept, y’know? On late nights in the office I have started to converse with the likes of Rochelle and Sandy.” He responds to what had spurred my visit by pointing to a white, streaky chunk of sandstone. “Sandy was especially insightful when it came to my relationships. She really helped me through a dark time … ” Again, Roch trailed off, although this time I decided not to follow up.
The comments about Sandy made me reminisce about my own relationships. How would I ever find someone to be the girl pixar volcano to my guy pixar volcano if Roch, an accomplished and appealing professor, couldn’t even find love?
As I zoned back into the conversation from my deep melancholy, I heard Roch continuing to describe his “friends.” “They move on their own, y’know. Rocks do move, they’re just very slow. The motion, it’s geologic, and alluring.” Before I could ask for context, he blurted in. “Anyway, licking the rock salt helps with my fluid retention.”
Now understanding the wet look of the rock, I asked if it was sentient, too. “Oh, no, it’s not. At least, I don’t think so. I hope not, unless …” Once again, his response trailed off, leaving me thinking of the person who had been my rock. Vanessa, my junior year girlfriend, was the person I went to whenever I had an issue or just needed to talk, but I guess all that did was make me needy when she left me to go “find herself.”
Roch’s final comments wrapped the interview up powerfully. “The rocks are my best friends and I won’t ever forget them. Never forget your friends. Sandy and Rochelle mean the world to me and know how to please me better than anyone.”
Climbing up the stairs from his basement office, I felt the light and thought, maybe for a moment, that I too could find someone to be the rock of my life and keep me grounded. But, as I stepped out and glimpsed at Fine Hall in the distance, I resigned myself to a life of sorrow.
Ethan is a contributing Humor writer and a big fan of rocks. They can be reached at eg0461[at]princeton.edu.
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