We all know campus gets busy, particularly during exams. Well, those of us who’ve been through exams at least once know.
First years don’t. Perhaps this explains why they, yearly, descend upon campus for their oh-so-vital exams like fire ants. The library is hot, it’s crowded, and someone might die. Some freshers show up purely to eat a Marketplace meal deal, smearing egg mayonnaise all over the walls and into everyone’s airspace like some crazed middle-class skunk, then promptly pack up their multi-coloured fine-liners, ring-binders, and a stapler which even they aren’t quite sure why they brought, before leaving for that arduous trek back to Lafrowda.
The library is a quiet place, a special place. The library contains, at this time, panicked writers of dissertations with cans upon cans of Red Bull that, sadly, don’t even have any Jägermeister in them. It is a transcendent zone for those of us whose degrees count for something at this stage, and who have pretended we ourselves are still freshers until there’s little time left to save it. And don’t say “just use Amory; freshers don’t understand Amory”. Nobody understands Amory.
Perhaps this is why I’m bitter. Perhaps it’s envy, for their carefree lives, for two more years on our beautiful campus with it’s high student-to-tree ratio, for the fact that nothing they do has any consequence (unless they’re into weirdly specific years in industry).
But still, all this in mind, you know they really don’t need to be there, because your deadline is tomorrow, and you’ve left it to today again because you’re a self-destructive moron. Those bloody Freshers.