1. My hand pushes on the metal plate that is positioned where the door knob should be. The gateway to a new world has granted me access. Entering, I notice that the floor has a certain grimy look to it (no matter how recently it has been scrubbed), and the smell of yesteryear's vomit lingers in the air. I stumble blindly to the urinal. Reaching my destination, my eyes glance at the dark yellow pools of liquid that seam to be begging, "Please sir, let us join our brothers in the sewer." I go about my business and stare blankly at the minute particles of chewing tobacco that have been firmly embedded in the white gout which holds the wall tiles together. And giving in to the imagined requests, I flush. I just wish more people would heed the pleadings of these sanitary saints -- but not when I'm taking a shower.

2. Before arriving, one of the most unappealing aspects of college life to me was the idea that, living in a dormitory, I'd be sharing a john with many other individuals. "Please don't take my favorite stall (stalag?) 17!" I don't have any peculiar bathroom habits (that I know of, but I'm fond of privacy. For a week or two, I read passages from Portnoy's Complaint outloud while I was occupying a stall to make sure that everyone would be extra sensitive about wiping ungodly substances off their respective toilet seats after use. However, after the first week of school, public restrooms, while not thrilling, did not really bother me anymore. Now I don't even think twice when Karen Keller wanders in to use the facilities.

3.When Friday (not Sgt. Joe) rolls around, the bathroom takes on simultaneously amusing and disgusting qualities that would make a hardened sailor who has survived many sea-storms proud. The sound of water (and other liquids) sloshing about is heard constantly. " I must fo down to the sea again" (Masefield). Punctuating the typhoon are loud obscenities followed by indescribable grunts. "I've got to get the ile! Shove on!" (O'Neill). The floor's formerly tan speckled desing has been enhanced in certain places by a pink, lumpy substance. "Call me Ishmael!" (Melville).

1. People who bear a great resemblance to prisoners of Aushwits languidly file into the cafeteria. Their faces are grim in anticipation of the gruel that is to come. Upon entering, one is confronted by a man sitting in a structure that is part podium and part throne. The complete stillness of his body suggests that the Grim Reaper has visited him within the last hour. But you quickly abandon this thought when his hand slowly reaches for your student I.D. A red beam of light dances over the bar-code, and he hands it back. "Just the facts, ma'am." (Dragnet -- Sgt. Joe Friday). You are so accustomed to this routine that your body is on auto-pilot, and, without any thought whatsoever, you begin to stroll onward (Sheep are slaughtered--Why not their eaters?). On the way, you pick up a cracked tray, a bent fork, a dull knife (Suicide Prevention Program issue?), and a crusted sppon. When you reach the serving counter, you glance at the entrees and hurriedly grab what appears to be the least of three evils. "Bad things come in threes (Conventional--and my Grandmother's wisdom).

2. The food is almost exactly the way I remember it at high school (except for the fact that there is a cornucopia of beverages to choose from here). But then it was slightly more tolerable because I was subjected to only five "foreign" meals a week. Now it is the only source of food to which I have access.

3. How is the quality of the food, you ask? Well, let's just say that when I eat the scrambled eggs that are served every morning for breakfast, I'm eerily reminded of the paste -- Do islanders really live on poi? -- that I consumed during grade school (Personal Experience). This is not a mere fleeting example, for all of the food that's served has a strange taste and texture when compared with what "mom used to make." I'm sure that the service is doing the best it can. After all, when you're making that much food at once, it's only expected that some of the quality will have to be sacrificed. Still, there seem to be just a few too many people who live off Lucky Charms. "They're manically delicious."

4. Gone are the days of eating whenever one feels hungry. Thoreau, where is my culinary Walden? Now an individual feels obligated to eat whenever the food service is serving a meal, whether hungry or not. Just the other day, I overheard someone in the dorm say "I'm gonna go over to Sorin and get it over with. The fucking meal that my parents have already paid for might as well be eaten" (Paul -- a fellow Drew resident).

1. It's 7:30. The alarm goes off. At the other end of the loft, a Neanderthal voice moans "fuuuuuuuck." Without saying a word, I turn off the alarm, climb down the ladder, put on a towel, and head for the shower. When I get back to the room, "sleeping bull" is still lost in a dense veil of slumber. I quietly dress myself and head out for breakfast. Don't get me wrong, I like it when he decides to sleep in. This way I don't have to eat with the great conversationalist.

2. On the occasions when Jock Strap decides to arise for class, I reluctantly enter the room after returning from breakfast only to be greeted by 250 lbs. of unadulterated irritation. "Shit, my pants stink," he grunts, in a rare fit of delicacy. He then proceeds to spray cologne into the air and makes sure that his jeans are permeated with the ghastly scent of Brut. I don't even wince at this stupidity anymore. He then grabs the remote control of MY stereo/video system plops his large ass down on the couch, munches on chip, and continuously flips through TV channels. I've never met anyone with a shorter attention span. Needless to say, I usually head for the study lounge or friends' rooms whenever Mr. Clean is in the room.

3. At night when I am forced to return to the room, I'm subjected to his wonderfully witty comedy routines. Tonight, a fourth-rate Andrew Dice Clay impersonation is on the docket. There is nothing sadder than to see a person who's convinced that he's funny make a complete ass of himself while sober. Remember those scenes in Raging Bull where Jake LaMotta is seen in his later years to be a pathetic nightclub entertainer? That's my roommate! (Scorsese) At the beginning I chuckled mirthlessly at his attempts, trying to be kind. But now I generally ignore the guy, hoping that he'll get the hint. You guessed it. No such luck. "Hope is a thing with feathers" (Dickenson). But must he verbally molt?

4. I could graphically describe all of his infuriating habits -- noisily fidgeting with anything he can get his meat-hooks on, going through my desk drawer, "borrowing" my possessions at will, spitting in the garbage can, talking to me about his "pussy" exploits when I'm clearly trying to sleep, expecting me to care when he fails tests in classes for which he has not yet purchased the book, etc. . . In the meantime, I'll be clinging to a few pipe dreams: perhaps he'll go home this weekend and the room will be mine, or, better yet, maybe the primate will drop out. I'm beginning to understand Clytemnestra more clearly! For ten years, she had the house to herself -- then HE returned. Of course he deserved to die. Aeschylus misjudged her!

1. The number of stairs one must climb to get to the third floor of the library seems infinite. Finally, after what feels like hours, one reaches a point where there are no more stairs to conquer. Armed with a bulging back-pack, I journey through an illuminated maze of book shelves, looking for a place to dwell for the evening. "There is no frigate like a book" (Dickenson). . .What a disappointment when I learned that a "frigate is a ship" not a vile act that many assigned books call to mind! (Webster) Eventually I come upon a sparsely populated area -- much like Mother Theresa upon first sighting Calcutta -- and I sit down. Suddenly I'm overwhelmed by a sobering realization: It's time to study. (As a general rule, the activity that one engages in immediately before actually study [in this case, the journey through the library] will often be prolonged to absurd lengths.)

2. Hand in back-pack -- fumble mindlessly -- did I bring enough pens? The fingertip is stabbed by a pesky BIC whose cap has journeyed to the netherworld of canvas seams. I pull it out and my newly blue finger from its repose. "Ah," I muse, "how mightier than the sword" (Shakespeare). Well, maybe not. No skin was broken.

3. I obey my screaming conscience and pull out the material that I must memorize for the following day's exam. After gazing at the text for about forty-five minutes, my mind begins to roam uncontrollably. I recall a rumor. Apparently there are people who reside in the library. They look like everyone else, but there are ways to distinguish them from "normal people"; they always sit in the same spot, and can be spotted there at any time of the day (Breakfast Conversation). Is this a coincidence or reality? I don't know. Perhaps I should contact Time-Life Books about this phenomenon.

Again, I am jolted back to the realization that I'd better study. Then there are forty-five more minutes of trying to firmly grasp the concepts that will more than likely be asked on the exam. Inevitably, my thoughts are once again interrupted by an annoying bit of trivia. My mind has wandered to Springfield, home of Leave it to Beaver. I muse on the actors. "Ah yes, Barbara Billingsly, Jerry Mathers, Tony Dow, and. . .and. . .Who the fuck played Ward?" There is no way I'll get my studying accomplished if this nagging question persists, for it demands an answer. After twenty minutes of mental straining and frustration, it comes to me: "Of course, Hugh Beaumont." I then feel guilty for avoiding my task and begin to hit the books. The cycle that I have only partially described continues unmercifully -- like the wanderings of Ulysses. . .Was fighting the cyclops worth it? Look what happened to his friend, Agamemnon. . .Agamemnon, such a name! Would any parent who wanted a child give him that handle? (Homer) -- throughout the course of the evening.

4. Schooling is merely a series of obstacles that one must overcome in order to get the life they desire. Let's face it: Almost mo one, if anyone, attends school simply because it's enriching. About the only way an individual can increase the probability of economic success is by attending some institution of higher learning. No one that I know really likes to hit the books, but yet they do it because it is a means to an end. . .visions of The Prince rush back like Machiavellian vomit that chokes the student on a roller-coaster of high school (Machiavelli).

5. "Life is a running sore" (Descartes). Keep reading, memorizing, reading, memorizing, reading. . . . "The library is closing," the 11:45-bound attendant reminds. Time to go back to the dorm. Glance down. "Well, made it all the way to page four."

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" (Shakespeare).