Alright, this one is for the boys. Ladies, we respect your space, but this one is just for the dudes. The real bros out there, you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking cigar-smoking, ice-eating, born-from-the-tailpipe-of-a-Ford-F150-type boys. Fellas, hombres, today we crack the coldest one of all: are people going to laugh at our facial hair?
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‘Tis the season of fall, the changing of the weather. Summertime may end, but the Thrill is weekly. I must write once more.
As I sit down at my dorm-issue desk in my black plastic dorm-issue chair, I feel an aching where my thigh bone meets my kneecap. For a second I mistake it for my metaphorical ache, my middle-class ennui, but soon I come to realize it is real, real pain, ouch, hang on I need to stand up.
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Morning in Gambier comes with the crunch of shoes on gravel. Swarms of students from north and south campus converge upon the hundred-or-so square feet of class area. In a better time, we would have all walked side by side as friends, except for that one friend who has to walk behind.
Now we are all that friend, as social distancing mandates personal space. With the mass of people moving between classes, how can one possibly hope to properly follow CDC guidelines?
As my hero once told me, “Gotta go fast.”
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The Kenyon Thrill 