I must confess. I am a simple man. I like blood, guts, and flaky crust. I know what America wants to see. America wants to see senseless violence, intersecting storylines, and pie. I said to the Thrill Editors, I said “I know what the people want” and they said “what do the people want?” and I said, you know what I said, I said “they want to see Fry. Pie. Wrestling.” A voice broke the silence, “What’s a fry pie?”
A few weeks ago, I found a tiny level on the floor of Lower Horn. I’ve been carrying it in my pocket ever since. Here’s a compilation of my investigative research on what’s flat and what’s not on this campus. Continue reading
Everyone knows that you’re never truly alone at Kenyon. You might think you’ve found the spot, but I hate to break it to you—you haven’t found the spot. Winter has come and people are pissy and definitely prone to breakdowns and I’m here to give you some advice on the absolute worst possible places to cry when you need to have a moment.
I am having a truly unique sophomore year. In the fall, I was a CA in McBride. For the Spring, I’ve moved to be a CA in Mather. I was placed in Lewis freshman year, and I thought I had escaped living in one of the weird brick beasts, the dungeon halls that make you feel like you’re living in a video game and carrying a torch down a secret passageway to slay a lizard. Turns out, I won the lottery! I get to live in BOTH of them! As a SOPHOMORE! In ONE YEAR! Hurrah! Since moving into Mather, I’ve started to pick up on the slight differences between the two buildings and their communities. And that got me thinking– what makes Mather, Mather? What makes McBride, McBride? And thus began my study.
“I have to be careful—I’m picking the seat I’m going to sit in for the rest of the semester.”
“I’m up earlier than I usually am, because someone stole my seat yesterday and I’m gonna get there super early and sit in the front row and say yes, don’t take my seat again.”
Look, we’ve all seen it happen before, right? A student’s answering or asking a question, has a quick slip of the tongue, and accidentally calls a teacher Mom or Dad. It’s embarrassing, sure, but it happens. And yeah, okay, that usually happens when you’re maybe eleven years old or something, but do you really think it couldn’t also happen to you when you’re older? I think it could; in fact I live in constant fear of it. Could you imagine?
Well, I have imagined, so you don’t have to. Here’s a list of professors I’ve had at this school ranked by how likely I think it is that I might accidentally refer to them as Dad, and look like a real baby boy in the process. I am so terrified of any of them reading this somehow.
Look around you. The world is two big bowls pressed together with a cranberry vinaigrette salad in the middle. Your head is a bowl for the squishy computer we call the brain. Your hands are just flexi-bowls. Eyes? Bowls. Your heart is a bowl for the slippery blood which breaths emotion and heartburn into you. Bowls, even, are fashion (see below).