Deep within the corridors of old Vanderbilt Hall lies a suite, its white walls boasting the treasure of an in-suite bathroom, complete with pee-steeped grout and a mold-encrusted shower. The shower clogs every two weeks like clockwork, and the fetid scents that arise no matter how many cleaning products are dumped demand the return of plague masks (or at least a very strong air freshener).
It is in front of this bathroom where I found myself at one in the morning, locked out from the inside, clutching my roommate’s pot that held the remains of a tragically undercooked ramen. In my dreams, I’ve always imagined myself as a slightly less attractive Alex Munday. But the harsh reality of my needing to use the bathroom had me realizing that no matter how many sewing needles, bobby pins and Yale ID cards I shoved into the various cracks and crevices, the lock would not unclick, and I would never be casted as a Charlie’s Angel. Eventually, I called my roommate and asked her to bring me a pair of scissors so I could cut open the screen covering our bathroom window (yes, I did climb over the gate and into the area right by our basement bathroom). But I found that the grate was made out of metal and that I probably couldn’t afford any damages that I would incur onto Yale property. But what would a Yale experience be without non-functioning room amenities? A better college experience, perhaps.
I was stuck in line for Hallowoads with hundreds of people in a chicken onesie last Halloween. I had been separated from my flock, dressed in the same onesie, as the current of the relentless crowd pulled me away from the main line. I tried to hop past the barricades to get back with my friends, but this girl started to cuss me out. Then, some guy had his arm on my neck for whatever reason, suffocating me while I was already struggling to breathe in this stupid chicken onesie. I told him to let go of his friend’s hand, but he said he “couldn’t lose his bestie.” I’m trying to seek help from a friend, but she’s getting hit on by a graduate student in a Hercules costume.
Right that second, the crowd started to wobble again, the force strong enough this time to push one of the outer barricades off. I fell bluntly onto dozens of people, and after being helped up, I spent some time freeing other people stuck in the pile. I wasn’t going back to the line, so I just sneaked through the side door into the building, only to be welcomed by an unenergetic crowd swaying to some truly mediocre remixes. Safe to say, I didn’t bother ordering tickets to Hallowoads this time around.
-Po Eic Quah
If you want to know how to wake yourself up in the morning, it seems that I have accidentally ascertained the secret. That is, if you don’t mind the condition of being four and a half feet deep, headfirst, stuck behind a twin XL bed frame.
It’s 8:30 a.m., which means my phone is playing soft chimes to lure me out of my slumber. I recently discovered that to be woken by the sound of only soft chimes is a blessing — but if you do not possess that gift I might recommend you try this technique. However, I feel an unusual sensation of pressure in my skull. Something is off. I am unbalanced. I attempt to arch my spine to normalize my position on the mattress. I continue to slide until I realize my head is stuck behind my bed and the wall. I am about to collapse into a 3 foot by 1 foot crevice, adjacent to the place where a headboard is missing. My roommate, now known as my savior, screams as she hears my cries for help. Grabbing my legs, she pulls me up from the bed and back into elevated Twin XL safety.
Besides the near head-to-floor calamity, this remains one of the few times where it took less than a few hours to feel awake in the morning. Despite this, I went straight to Amazon and purchased a headboard. Pick your poison, am I right?