Yes, this was actually said. Our dear Diversity Editor was traumatized to realize, Tuesday night, that nothing particularly bad had happened. There were so many opportunities for evilness- and yet none of it panned out. We editors were heartbroken when we realized that nothing had happened to either of us- nor to any immediate friends- that would be entertaining to you, our loyal readers. In fact, she even went so far as to predict that our room would begin sprouting rays of sunshine if our usual quota of sarcasm and ill luck didn't show up.
We finished layout Thursday the twenty-fourth for the issue you just read. Of course, for us, finishing layout involves calling our writers, asking when the article will be ready, sitting in the office checking email, calling again, checking some more email, and generally killing time. Surprisingly, this is all kept from being mind-numbingly boring by the staff at the Beacon, all of whom work together to be as insane and amusing as possible. Like the one night that the staplers were transformed into Bat-a-rangs. Or the night we held phone conversations via microwave and sofa. Or the attack of the killer paper airplanes. And we still manage to create this wonderful finished project.
Both of us (Jen and myself) went home for the weekend. You'd think this would have provided some entertainment value somewhere along the line, but no. Things had to go well - how dare they! Well, except for getting lost on the way home, but that's par for the course when I drive.
Monday was interesting, since both of us had classes new to us. No matter how we try, we can't seem to escape those evil night classes that don't let us out until way past my bedtime (yes, I it were up to me, I'd probably be in bed long before ten). Then we get to walk home in the dark, across the entire campus, and risk getting raped, killed, and abducted by aliens. Or something like that. Mondays are also loads of fun for me because I'm a ninny, and managed to plan my Monday schedules so that I'm in class from two until ten. Wow, I just realized that I'm whining. Well, tough. This is a horror story, and that's my horror.
So we spent some time at random points engaging in battles with the bookstore. First, the five mile lines. Then the professor who didn't remember to order the book because he ordered it last semester and thought they would know he needed it again. Then the health book that the entire class bought incorrectly; the teacher announced that she had never seen the book in her life. And the little tiny book and two cassette package that cost ninety-five dollars that I managed to get for twenty-one fifty. But surprisingly, none of this was particularly obnoxious or difficult, especially when compared to prior semesters. It's a conspiracy, I tell you.
Even the showers are in on it. The shower in our room tends to be lukewarm at best. Occasionally I have gotten a truly hot shower, but my roommate has had two above Artic temperature since September. However, one of those two was this week. So even a repeat offender has joined in the conspiracy to halt the progress of Horror Stories.
Fate continually laughs at the both of us, as this past week- semester- year- decade has proven. But that's alright. I'm sure life will be back to its average horribleness next week.