Monday, February 24, 2003

Though I penned a masterpiece of a paper last night, gentle reader, one that would make Socrates choke on his hemlock, I’ve yet another paper to craft tonight.

“Will it never end?” you wail in commiseration with me.

“It won’t,” I tell you with a pat on your shoulder and a sympathetic nod, “so cry with me, dear reader, and let those hot, sweet tears run down your cheeks.”

Done? Good.

Does it ever seem like Fate, or a council of professors, conspires against you? At least on the NU campus, I bet that the secret Brim-let’smakethestudentscry-stone Society meets in the basement of Kresge on Wednesday and Friday nights. During these meetings, professors multifarious (along with Willie the Groundskeeper) gather ‘round a scratched wooden table, collectively cackle, sacrifice the requisite amount of babies and hamsters, then proceed to line up their due dates one after the other. Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?

“Don’t you have an obligation to manage your schedule responsibly?” you interject with a schoolmarm look.

“How about fixing your heater, huh? Did you do that yet?” I respond in kind. “I’ve gotchur obligation RIGHT HERE.”

I have another theory, in case you’re still listening. It came to me while I did my laundry yesterday. Do you ever notice how mysterious piles of clothes STAY in your dorm laundry room, day after day, week after week? Don’t people need clothes anymore? What’s going on here? Why don’t people pick up their clothes?

I’ll tell you why, gentle reader. I picture a student reading deconstructionist literature in the laundry room. After getting to page four out of fifty, a lightbulb appears over her head and the notion of “clothes” seems outmoded. What are clothes, after all? Can we even define our coverings as “clothes”? Can we even call a lightbulb a “lightbulb”? I don’t know, but I sure hope she’s hot.