When I’m at Moffitt, the world around me ceases to exist. As I drift into an overdue stats assignment, I blend into one of the dirty blue stripes of the carpet. I become Moffitt, and Moffitt becomes me. Or so I thought…
I have a confession to make to my fellow students, interlocutors, and friends. I owe it to everyone to air out what has occurred in Moffitt. Late last Sunday night, as the regular crowd of procrastinators began to fill up the first floor, I felt some trouble brewing in my stomach. It couldn’t possibly be that black bean Crunchwrap from earlier, could it? A cute and slightly feminine burp seems to ease the situation for the time being. I get back to work optimizing supply chains.
Pfft, pfffffft, prrrrrrrrt, BLAAARP! A juicy, gurgling fart rips through my sphincter. I look around in horror; DID ANYONE HEAR THAT? A girl from my Data 8 cohort is glaring at me, but that isn’t too bad, right? I swivel my head, and my eyes land on one of my failed Hinge attempts, who is covering his nose.
I grab my bag and start to trot to the bathroom to poop and cry. As I book it, I make eye contact with my estranged freshman roommate. Her eyes are watering from the stench.
Suddenly, the carbon monoxide alarm begins to blare. Did they really have to add one of those during the remodel? My sensory system is overwhelmed, and I am itching EVERYWHERE. I evacuate amongst a plethora of individuals, including my worst enemy, my worst college sex, and a remnant of the worst class I ever took at Berkeley.
As we step outside, I realize I have forgotten my computer. I will have to mingle with the fellow Moffitters and wait out the alarm. I still need to use the bathroom (I am turtleheading). While I am clenching my butt, I see my Hinge Horror hold back the hair of my ex roommate, who is dry heaving over a bush. Awesome!
As Friday crests, I need to get this off my chest. I need to learn from my mistakes. Never trust your bowels to remain loyal in the library of lawlessness.