The room’s lighting has everyone roasting like hours-old food at Gheav (some hipsters call the new place Natty Mart, but we all know those lights and the overpriced food recalls the place we all loved and loathed). My essay’s just about as stale and distasteful as the Gheav-Natty Mart entrée selections, but it’s maybe going somewhere at some point tonight—the deadline certainly isn’t. Across from me, a girl adjusts her glasses and moves her books aside. The book stack is large and she glances at me with the sort of glance that you would expect from someone that’s read, as her pile indicates, too much Paradise Lost. She’s distraught. Maybe Paradise Lost is a buzz kill—allusions and Latinate lines are a lot to handle. But that’s when the metal object emerges between us. The books are out of the way and her laptop is closed. She stretches her other arm irritably, then sighs deeply. She glances around the room then leans forward. The metal thing, long and partially covered by her hand, comes nearer to me and drips with red at the end. Our eyes meet. Then she raises the handle one last time and its edge glistens…finally she slurps. Paradise Lost homie might not have been a serial killer, but she continued to seriously slurp that strawberry yogurt for long enough to read the Milton twice and condemn Unnamed Residential College Library to the list of study spaces lost to the serial serenading strawberry yogurt slurpers.