by Izzy Cohan, staff writer
With the start of the new semester come all the expected changes. New faces to study in Jensen, different monotones so dry you can hardly squeeze four bullet points from them, classes that excite you and lectures that don’t.
Though these changes are expected, we need to have our minds clear and our living situations seamlessly figured out so we have one less headache as we attempt to find our niche in the world of Liberal Arts.
A few weeks ago I changed my living arrangements with the hopes of increasing my efficiency, productivity and gusto. As the time has passed my brain feels clogged with dust and it’s definitely not helping my creativity. Years of filth have accumulated in Village A 219, and with each fresh resident comes more grime, planting itself atop of the ceiling fan—small mountains of grey matter slowly poisoning me.
The daily, weekly, or even monthly requirements of keeping my living space clean are issues I am prepared and ready to deal with, but I shouldn’t have to worry about two and a half years worth of it and that is why I propose the idea:
All residents living in the Villages are required to fully move out of their suites no matter their plans for that summer or next semester.
This suggestion is to develop some standards in the Village. To ensure that air quality isn’t a constant plight and to not have to worry about being bitten by a Black Widow when I reach for my quinoa in the cupboard [thank you Andrew for dealing with our spider problem].
Dancing on my tip toes so I don’t step on the sticky tiles with my full footprint I maneuver myself to the sofa to enjoy Star Wars Pod Racer on the suite’s Nintendo 64, watching the pixels larger than nickels move about the screen attempting to make a viable image I remind myself that I knowingly agreed to move into this suite. I genuinely enjoy the company of the people I am living with and we each seem to play a role in this thriving dynamic of intellect.
However, this suite needs a good cleaning, and I just don’t feel as though it’s my mess.
I look in repugnance at the oozing refrigerator, but it isn’t my mess, it isn’t my concoctions, and it ain’t my food to sift through. I feel the impulse to take a garbage bag in one hand and hold it there while the other swipes the shelves clean of the blue, yellow, green, orange, red, magenta, teal and whatever other colored object I can find in there, but hey, it ain’t my mess.