Our friendly neighborhood dean rests at his desk, tired from walking a mile in the shoes of his valiant friends and vanquished foes. Suddenly, a bright light spills into his room.
Confused? Call your mom.
Wool blankets and more
What did I do to deserve so much disdain? Is it too much to ask for the students, who walk by my doors every day, to give one ounce of recognition to the ten years I have spent relegated to the Quad, watching them silently pity my apparent lack of purpose?
That’s the whole trouble with the whole stupid housing thing. You can’t ever find people who aren’t phonies. They bicker about the goddam group name or something, or want to block with Alexander, just about the biggest bastard that ever lived in the whole crumby history of the world.
Dean Khurana, Egg Frittata, Steamy Sauna