I’ll be honest here, I consider myself pretty masculine: I lift weights, play rugby and laugh at people who express their emotions. But there is one thing that will make me run screaming like a little girl: Cockroaches.
So when I walked to the bathroom on the second floor of White Hall a few weeks ago and saw a sign on the door that said “Beware of roaches,” I was slightly concerned. However, I figured it was likely a play on words, a not-so-subtle prank by one of my neighbors. My belief was reinforced by the drawing of a marijuana cigarette beneath the letters. I chuckled as I strode confidently into the bathroom with my Sports Illustrated.
A few weeks later, there was another sign on the bathroom door that read:
“DO NOT STEP ON ROACHES. YOU WILL TRACK THEIR EGGS EVERYWHERE.”
My unease grew. After all, that was real advice and I doubted someone playing a prank would go that far. But I still somehow managed to put it out of my mind.
Until that fateful Friday night.
Walking down my hall, my thoughts turned rapidly from whom I was hanging out with that night to “Hey, why would someone park a brown Volvo in the middle of the hallway … OH MY GOD, THAT THING IS HUGE.”
I won’t reproduce the expletive-laced statement that ensued, but suffice to say, I expressed surprise and indignation in a colorful and forceful manner. Since then, I have encountered several more, in the hallways and in the bathrooms.
And it is ruining my life.
My roommate, vengeful after dozens of humiliating Madden losses, has finally found my weakness and has taken to asking, “What’s that crawling up the wall?”
When I walk through the halls, I move with the caution of a grunt making his way through the jungles of Nam. The week following my first sighting, I didn’t take any showers. I’d rather have dogs whimper and babies wail when I walk by than to set myself up for a psycho-style ambush.
Besides, I still have cologne.
Perhaps I’m being too hard on the cockroaches. I mean, they have feelings too. Like feelings of loneliness, which is why they invited their friends, the mice, to join them. It’s like one big party, except there’s lots of diseases being spread around.
Well, maybe it is like one big party.
But honestly, aren’t we better than this? I mean, I realize White Hall is an old building and we are in the middle of the city, but I feel more can be done. As much as I loved reading “Angela’s Ashes,” I have no desire to experience it. I didn’t expect my freshman residence hall to be a four-star hotel, but I also didn’t expect it to be a tenement.
I realize it is both acceptable and encouraged to bash the administration whenever possible, but that really isn’t what I’m trying to do. The sign on the door was not put up by RAs and I did not see the mice myself. As much as I would love to tell you that President Richard Freeland is using your tuition money to torture kittens, that just isn’t the case, and I’m not a liar. Well, that is, unless you’re a beautiful girl, in which case I really do love you, you’re different from all the other girls and yes, we’re going to be together forever. But I digress.
We are supposed to be a world-class university. We have the brains, the sweatshirts and maybe after a few years of heavy steroid use, we’ll have the football team.
Since most of my methods of ridding the roaches wouldn’t pass by United Nations weapons inspectors, I suppose I’ll just have to call Northeastern Pest Control.
Just get rid of the vermin.
– David Spellman is a freshman criminal justice major.
