Guy Talk

Dorm, dorm, da dorm, dorm, dorm.

Knock, knock. Who’s there?

Dorm!

Why did the chicken cross the road?

To get to the dorm! I’m thinking of a word that startswith a ‘D’ and rhymes with corm.

So there, I said it.

Man the editors are going to go nuts trying to make this articlefit the politically correct standards set forth by the people ofthis university that have nothing better to do than to decide thatdorms should be called residence halls.

A residence hall sounds like some place you drop off grandma foran extended stay with unlimited bingo nights. If I wanted to hangout in a residence hall, I would have both of my knees replacedwith metal rods, donate my kidney stones to medical research andmove down to Florida.

I think somebody decided that taking the word dorm and replacingit with the words residence hall would help to reduce the amount ofruckus and social activity occurring on a daily basis.

Ha, Boaz. Case closed.

So, for the remainder of the article dorms are dorms andfreshman are freshman. Don’t like it? Meet me at the tenniscourts around midnight, and we can solve the conflict ofinterest.

Now back to the big show.

Yes folks, I made the trip back to the dorms and man did itbring back the memories. I never should have waited this long toreturn.

I sat outside the door, which beckoned me to enter. After only afew quick seconds, pure instinct forced my eyes to look to theground. Sure enough, I noticed the door carefully propped open. Itwas a sign — I was back.

I made my way to the elevator, greeting everyone in my path asif they were old classmates from Mrs. Schneider’s third gradeEnglish class.

Silly me, I didn’t know anybody. However, on this chillyFebruary night it didn’t seem to matter. All social rules arethrown aside in the dorms.

As I approached the elevator, I quickly moved into a deep stateof thought. After determining my life had a respectable value, Idecided to take the stairs.

Look, I grew up in the rough streets of Shuttles my freshmanyear; I know a faulty elevator when I see one.

As I made my way to the third floor, I heard the soft tunes ofan acoustic guitar. Some poor sap was strumming a tune with hisdoor open in hopes of catching the ear of Miss Right. Or at leasthe was looking for Miss Right Place at the Right Time on the RightNight during the Right Slump.

If I was the guy that lived down the hall and I was trying tostudy for my Intro to Psychology exam, I would be strumming on thatdudes face until the only way he could play John Mayer cover songswas threw the hole in his nose.

I graced the hallway on the third floor and noticed a remarkablenumber of doors left open.

We all know there are only two reasons to ever leave your dooropen.

Guys leave their doors open because they think they are membersin real life monopoly game. It doesn’t matter how many timesthe ladies land on Boardwalk as long as they eventually spend anight in the motel on Baltic.

Girls leave their doors open so that other girls can come in andtalk about the guy on Baltic and how dirty his motel was and howhis so called big silver boot game piece is more like the nubbythimble.

I carefully selected my door of choice and entered the tinycell. Now I’m pretty sure that I haven’t grown muchsince freshman year which means the rooms are really as small asthey look. The two beds, the table and a TV stand encompassed themajority of the space in the room. Walls resemble that of a highschool locker.

There are enough pictures of friends from home to start apersonal art gallery. Then there are the posters from that big salein the student center.

Finally, there are the selective goods (stolen items). Many ofthese items are acquired during brief periods of intoxication orpossibly just moments of sheer boredom. These items range from”Go to Class” posters to road signs or anything with asexual reference that might be good for a chuckle.

The floors seem to be just as clustered as the walls. There areno rules to what can be discovered on the dorm floor. Items mayrange from dirty laundry, leftover pizza, candy wrappers, otherwrappers, NyQuil and possibly even books.

I made my way through the land mines and found my way to thebano. That is Spanish for bathroom, but my keyboard doesn’thave that little wavy thing that sits on top of the‘n,’ so it just looks like some strange word.

Anyway, in the bathroom I began to chuckle. I couldn’tresist myself. I immediately flushed the toilet and then ran downthe stairs, out the door, across the lawn, into another dorm, up tothe fourth floor and heard the young lady in the shower scream asshe was scalded after her water temperature changed unexpectedly.Then I hustled back to my original dorm and resumed myadventure.

I returned to the room and fixed my eyes on the bed. Withouthesitation I began to pat myself on the back. Executing anything onthat amount of space with the walls as thin as they are is withouta doubt one of the largest accomplishments in my life. Well, maybenot, but I still felt pretty good.

So to those of you living the life in the dorms, I salute you.It is the opportunity of a lifetime so please make the most of it.After all, when you are in your final semester of college like Iam, all you have left are the memories.