I hope my five readers are enjoying the changes. I certainly am. Much better this way, I think. And never assume that just because there are only four of you (the number drops by the moment) I don't truly appreciate the fact that your lives equal or surpass mine in boredom.
Why else would you be spending your time reading this page? Seriously. That makes me feel better about myself. And as some of you know, that is a very good thing.
I am currently in the Communications building, and, yet again, it smells like human feces. I, in a way, feel sorry for all the comm majors who must endure this horror on a daily basis. They can fix this after they fix the Admin building, on account of the fact that it's falling down.
No one told you that story?
Well, okay, I'll tell you.
It started at eleven o'clock. The stairs were creaking in the spring breeze (they do that, the building shakes) and the visiting prospective students were tripping over the hill in the floorboards (this was caused by the linking of two buildings into one Super-Structure, without the benefit of an architect and with some sinking in the foundations of said Super-Structure). I climbed the leaning stairs, which are slightly safer than the bowed and slippery stairs and massively less safe than the stairs by Wampler, which are enormously less convenient and possibly haunted. While doing this, I made certian to stand on the side closest to the wall, to ensure that a stair collapse would leave me closest to the least tilting portion of the stairway and therefore able to land on top of the wreckage, when the stairs collapse. When the stairs collapse.
Dr. Angelos is, by far, the sole teacher on campus who everyone adores. There is not a soul who would warn you away from his classes or his Jan term treks across Europe, despite the trials associated with Delta Airlines which some of us have experienced. Suprisingly, this does not vary amony those who have failed his classes or those who have passed with flying colors. All of us adore Dr. Angelos, his unique teaching style, his veiled insults directed at our nation's current leadership, and his willingness to aknowledge the gaps in his and our educations.
I had an Angelos class that day. So did my friend Andrew. He is tall, and has a beautiful singing voice. He is also much taller than I, and does not resemble a toothpick, as I have been accused of in the past. He has an easy way of lowering himself into the desks on campus, a mannerism which would give me compound bruises on my posterior (as well as some "mystery bruises" on my legs, back, and elbows). So as we entered the class, I carefully slid into the desk, easing my eighty-year-old-joints-on-a-twenty-one-year-old's body into the chair which would cause me discomfort for the next hour or so. Andrew collapsed into his own chair.
And a rumble echoed out from the once proud Admin building, a shudder of long-forgotten pain, the remnent of decades of abuse directed at it and its foundations, a plea for mercy as yet another student neglected its agonies.
It is to be noted that the wall in this particular room is home to a particularly large crack. This crack has been the object of some concern for several people over the years, and since only a few of them thought to mention this concern, and none of them were in possession of the funds or desire to facilitate repairs on it, the solution which the lack of options afforded the college was a coat of white paint spread liberally over the offending fracture. It may have been thought that this attempt at disguise would distract from the growing knowledge that this building will indeed collapse at any time. But no matter the object, the crack proved itself superior by simply allowing itself to grow and break through the paint, which was, after all, not any kind of adhesive.
Andrew, possibly thinking, Heck no, I don't weigh that much. Really. A person would think HE would have made the wall shake. Not ME. And was that the wall. No. Probably not. No, that was something they did as a joke on the stairs. Or was it? Better check, stood and repeated his earlier motion.
The building, yet again, cried out in despair.
It became evident, at that point, that Andrew, far from overweight as he is, had caused the outcry.
It seemed as if he was beginnig to grasp this, to understand. But a part of him preferred it not to be himself that had caused the horrid noise. I could tell he was about to test it again.
"Wait," I found myself saying. "Wait until Dr. Angelos comes. If the building collapses then, at least the college will put up a plaque where our mangled bodies are discovered instead of just some candlelight vigil or something."
I want a plaque, if I die somewhere interesting, or tragically. Is it too much to ask?
I'm thinking of having one made up now, with something witty engraved on it. Something like, "She got what she deserved" or "Kind and loving daughter, sister, and friend (but her death was certainly more interesting than the above)."
Then there would be grisly murder tours around where they found me, just like in London.