Can I? Can I Have Your Number?

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Does anyone else hate the new set-up in the Student Center, with the food court and Prof’s Place and all that nonsense? What am I saying; of course you do, because it’s jacked-up. I nearly set my room on fire today and I place the blame squarely on The Nonsense.

“But,” you say, “you’re a college student. The least you should be able to do is work a microwave.” And I can. Like a mofo. I’m the Barefoot Contessa of Soup-At-Hand, the Nigella Lawson of popcorn mini-bags, the Giada De Laurentiis of those white-trash Chef Boyardee ravioli cups. (Eff Rachael Ray, she pisses me off.) I still managed to make my microwave go temporarily blooey.

It really wasn’t my fault, though. Like I said, The Nonsense is totally responsible. I went to the Prof’s Place to grab something, but the touch-screen, one of the convenient two to serve the entire undergraduate population currently residing on campus, was broken. I’m an impatient person, never more so when I haven’t eaten all day (or in the last three hours. I have low blood sugar, shut up. [← That's a lie.]) so I gave up and checked the Pronto, where the line was a gajillion years long (≈), and went to the food court. Where I waited 20 minutes for a sandwich and fries. I mean, honestly, if I’m going to eat something will probably kill me, I don’t want to have time to reconsider.

Anyway, I finally get something to eat and, of course, it was cold, and, of course, walking back to the dorm didn’t help the situation because it was practically sleeting, so everything was frigid by the time I got inside. I figured, chuck it in the microwave, it’ll all be copacetic. I had the foresight to take out the ketchup packets (it would just be foolish to do otherwise), but I figured I’d leave the sandwich in the foil-lined bag because my vast experience with the foodstuffs of the lazy has taught me that sometimes it’s okay to put metal in the microwave. Except when it’s a bag lined with tinfoil, apparently, because three seconds in, the microwave starts sparking and there was an ominous smell of smoke. Recalling some sort of saying about “smoke” and “fire” (the specifics aren’t clear), I pulled the bag out and heroically snuffed the flames that were burning merrily on the corner of the sandwich bag. Fear not! The sandwich was fine and displayed its gratitude by promptly becoming lunch. The fries were more reluctant, but they have a pack mentality and eventually gave in.

And this wasn’t my fault because if I had been able to go to the Prof’s Place, or the Pronto Fresco, and wasn’t so annoyed that I was all “Whatever! I do what I want! And I want artery-clogging fake food!” then I wouldn’t have gotten cold Chic-Fil-A that I had to set on fire. So, really. It’s pretty clear who’s to blame.