This is a paper I wrote for a class last year about the floor I lived on, and the ridiculous, entertaining, unbelievable, and wonderful people I lived with. I plan on submitting it to be published at some point, so let me know what you think–enjoy!
Drama Queens & Gossip Fiends
There’s a lot more to Kimmel Hall than four floors complete with bathrooms, beds, and residents—there are also vending machines—but what is truly special about the building is what lies just beyond said machines, through the heavy grey door. Upon opening this door, one will find an exit door directly in front of her, and if she only knew what happens within these walls, she would run full speed ahead.
Teenage girls are ridiculous, I should know—I fall perfectly into that category, and unfortunately I’m stuck there for another two years. What is so ridiculous about teenage girls you may ask?–Well, a lot—and through PMS, boys, alcohol, boys, drugs, poor attention spans and sleep deprivation you too will become familiar with teenage girls in their natural habitat, but let’s go back to where it all begins.
High school is a breeding ground for teenage girls. It is where the drama starts, and where most naïve individuals believe it ends—but of course they are terribly mistaken. You see, when you strip yourself of your graduation cap and gown, the stench of drama remains, and no amount of soap can remove it from your flesh as only personal and intellectual growth can truly shed the skin of adolescence. Thus, when you arrive to college, you are still in this old, dramatic skin with thoughts of being this cool new kid in town who hopes of making a million and a half friends and dating your professor for a guaranteed “A.” Then you realize your floor consists of fifteen other girls, all freshmen—fuck.
Now we’re back to Kimmel Hall, where it all goes down, and not a day goes by where a bed doesn’t squeak from perpetual motion. It’s a quiet hall, or at least it’s supposed to be after the hours of eleven PM Sunday-Thursday, and two AM Friday-Saturday, but there is always noise no matter what time the clock reads. Lined by doors to the laundry room, stairwell, garbage room, sink room, and bathroom on one side, and portholes into hours upon hours of entertainment on the other, the ground floor serves as a common walkway for all the residents of Kimmel Hall. These portholes, or dorm rooms, contain human beings—female human beings, college freshmen female human beings—the best kind of human beings in my sarcastic opinion.
I must warn you that venturing into the world of college freshmen girls may be detrimental to your health, unless you’re a college freshmen male, then it may be very beneficial for you. Nonetheless, the following stories are actual instances that have occurred on the ground floor of Kimmel Hall over the course of the 2008-2009 academic year. It amazes me to see just how much can happen over such a short span of time, and how these numerous events can join forces to make seven months seem like an eternity.
What’s That Noise?
Water fountains are one of God’s many great inventions. They are conveniently placed on walls to ensure no one walks into them, though I have fallen victim to many, and they dispense water—wonderful pure water—hopefully not from Onandaga Lake. One day, while resting and being studious in my dorm, my friend Sarah stormed in claiming she got a lot more than just water from her trip to the fountain. Sarah is one of those girls who just doesn’t give a shit about anything, unless it’s something worth sticking around for. She’s a small girl, but packs a hyperactivity that gives a Mexican jumping bean on Cinco De Mayo a run for its money. Despite her craziness, underneath all her constant movement, and spandex pants, she is always around to lend a hand—until her attention span gives out due to her raging Attention Deficit Disorder.
Being the nosy individual that I am, I dropped whatever I was doing, most likely playing Guitar Hero, and ran to the fountain, until Sarah yelled at me to not make so much noise, in which case I began to tip-toe to the fountain. When I arrived, some ten feet later, I stared at the fountain in amazement, as it was just that—a fountain. I was then interrupted by a vague shrieking sound coming from behind Michelle’s door, conveniently located right across from the water fountain. After I peeled the virgin skin away from my eardrums, it became apparent to me that Michelle was having sex in that very room, and was loud enough to give anyone taking a sip at the fountain a free show. What intrigued me was the fact that her room was also the first one on the floor, thus it was located directly by the main door, and her sound effects could be heard and enjoyed by many passersby’s on the way to their respective dorm rooms.
Aside from the ideal location of Michelle’s room and her sighs of joy, I still felt the need to make sure everyone knew what was going on—because, as I said, I too am a teenager posing as a freshman in college. So I ran directly to Kendra and Sasha’s room and burst through the door—not literally—but they always insist that I just let myself in, so I did without hesitation and immediately told them to take a walk to the water fountain. They did, and thoroughly enjoyed it. We all felt like such perverted human beings, but come on, Michelle was loud enough to be heard in Fayetteville and I’m surprised her bed is still intact with all the squeaking we had to bear.
Sex is to college kids as milk is to cereal. College kids want sex, and some claim to need it to fuel their lives, and cereal doesn’t really get too far without milk. There’s no denying that college kids love their sex, and will go to great lengths to partake in its acts. One act in particular occurred right here in good old Kimmel Hall—shocking, I know. It all started one evening when I was hanging out in Kendra and Sasha’s room, when we heard some commotion in the hallway and became suspicious. Kendra and Sasha are both totally different personalities—I’m talking polar opposites. One, Kendra, is reserved, studious, and narcoleptic, while the other, Sasha, parties hard and has perfected the art of sleeping in a different bed every night, while still managing to make it to class on time at eight AM the next morning. This habit was more prevalent last semester, but that’s beside the point. Sasha and I are the only two Jewish girls on our floor, thus we are nosy (no pun intended), and always see it fit to get the 411 on everyone and everything. So of course when we heard a noise we had to take a peak through the peep-hole to see what all the fuss was about. Nothing. We saw nothing. Now we were both confused and intrigued, as we knew something was happening—but what? Then we heard it—our first clue—the bathroom door slammed and as the hinge folded, we were out the door and into the bathroom faster than a stay-at-home-mom into a Gucci sample sale. When we caught our breath, we immediately held it again to assure we wouldn’t laugh loud enough to be detected. We waited about thirty-seconds until we realized there was nothing to be seen, so we left with our hopes of discovering some new juicy information crushed.
About an hour passed, and it was time for me to brush my teeth, so I walked to the bathroom and positioned myself in the bathroom at one of our lovely three sinks often lined in food and hair. I was brushing away when I noticed something odd—the curtain to the handicap shower was closed, and the water was on. Now, not only was it about two in the morning, but no one, and I mean no one uses the handicap shower. The nozzle is all messed up, the drain is moldy, there’s a germ-infested bench, and it is just an awkward shower in general. The other two showers weren’t in use, so why would anyone be in the handicap one? I was puzzled, but I needed to find out immediately, so I ran into Sasha and Kendra’s room once again to share my findings. Sasha grabbed her toothbrush before I could finish my sentence and we both found ourselves in the bathroom using our investigative skills—pretending to brush our teeth while we made faces at each other with hopes of finding out who was in that shower stall and why. We began to feel down on our luck, but then I saw it—the curtain moved! A sign of life! But the question of which life still remained. Sasha moved to the side to peek in—I admire her courage—and discovered that the person in the shower was actually the people in the shower! Two to be exact! And they were fully clothed! I couldn’t understand, for the life of me, how this was possible, or why this was possible. It was clear in both our minds that further investigation was required, so we stopped to gather our thoughts.
After some brainstorming and critical thinking, we came to the conclusion that we had no conclusion, so we left the bathroom and returned to Sasha’s room with faces full of disappointment. Then, something miraculous happened—we both had an epiphany! “Let’s stare at the bathroom door until we see someone come out!” we both suggested. So we did, through the peephole of course to further remain anonymous in our research, and then saw the likes of Mary and her apparent boyfriend Harold. I say apparent because they claim to be exclusive, but fight like inmates on death row, and I just so happen to see her making out with other various boys, who are not Harold, at frat parties on a regular basis. We may never know what went down that night in the handicap shower, but considering both Mary and Harold were completely dry upon leaving the bathroom, it’s safe to say that lather, rinse, repeat wasn’t on their agenda that evening.
How Does This Work?
It was a lovely day in Kimmel Hall when Sasha informed us she agreed to go on a date with a boy she met at the airport. We, her fellow floor mates, were quite hesitant to let her go considering this boy was really a man, as he was thirty-three years old, making him fifteen years her senior—ridiculous. But in the life of a teenage girl, older translates into more experience, and in all honesty, he didn’t look a day over twenty-five, so I guess it could be deemed acceptable in girl world.
Bob agreed to pick Sasha up around six that evening to take her to the mall for some dinner and a movie—how original. Before he arrived, Kendra, Sasha’s roommate, handed her a bottle of pepper spray, “take this just incase, you never know” she said, and Sasha tossed the bottle into her purse. Kendra was working the main desk that evening, so Sasha requested that I walk with her to Bob’s car to make sure he didn’t have a gun and duct tape. Everything checked out and she hopped into his Jeep—they were on their way.
Back at Kimmel, I stood at the desk talking to Kendra who was a bag full of nerves. We kept making jokes about “worst case scenarios” but we both assured ourselves that everything would be just fine in the end. Then Kendra started receiving a series of text messages from Sasha exclaiming that she wanted to come home immediately, and that she regretted ever getting into his car in the first place. Fifteen minutes later she was back, and boy did she have a story to tell.
As it turns out, Bob went in for the kill, and by kill I mean kiss, as soon as Sasha hopped into the car—first red flag. Then he decided to park his car in the farthest spot possible, away from all signs of life—second red flag. For most girls, two red flags is enough to begin writing an S.O.S message, but of course Sasha isn’t like most girls. Upon exiting his car, Bob requested that she come around to the back and see something in his trunk. That “something “ in his trunk was a blanket and pillows he stationed there himself—third red flag. He turned the back of his car into a pseudo bed—something one should never do, unless of course you’re traveling cross-country and want to save money on hotels, but the mall is ten minutes away, so Bob committed a car-bed faux paw. Knowing exactly what the layout in his trunk was hinting at, Sasha immediately yelled “I am NOT having sex with you!”, “come on, at least give me something”, he said, but Sasha wouldn’t give in and demanded that he take her home immediately. Then, the unthinkable happened—Sasha pulled out the pepper spray—bet you didn’t see that coming. Bob grew visibly angry, and started to yell at her, so she held the can up to his face and yelled “take me home RIGHT now!”—He took her home.
Kendra and I were still at the front desk when we saw her walk in, which is when she told us everything that I just told you. She acted it out in such a way that it could have easily been incorporated into an episode of Gossip Girl or The OC, and given the award for most melodramatic episode in the history of television—maybe I’ll sell the story one day. After sharing her experience, she handed Kendra back her pepper spray and thanked her, when all three of us realized we didn’t even know how to use a can of pepper spray in the first place. Kendra took the bottle and pressed a few different buttons—nothing. Then, she pulled something and pushed something else and WHAM!—pepper spray. We laughed because the spray’s sudden appearance frightened us all, but then we carried on with our lives, until Kendra started to cough, and both Sasha and I started to choke.
As it turns out, upon spraying pepper spray, it disperses into the open air and attacks people’s noses and throats—talk about learning something the hard way. To make the situation worse, it was like a bus has just gotten in, and people from all four floors were walking in and out of the building right through the scene of the crime. Everyone began to smell the horrific smell, and coughing replaced the squeaking of the nearby furnace. It was terrible, and we didn’t know what else to do other than to grab our Resident Advisor Kevin. He didn’t know what to do either so he called the Department of Public Safety. While we waited for DPS to show up—from a safe distance—we kindly warned our fellow dorm-mates to hold their breath while walking through the lobby so that they wouldn’t begin to choke and eventually seize on the floor. Once DPS arrived, they addressed the situation, which included asking Kendra, the proper owner of the spray, what had happened. Kendra got written up, and we all lost a few brain cells, but that one little can was the sole reason why our dear friend Sasha was able to avoid a possible raping that evening.
Broken Fan in Cold Weather
It was a random weeknight, a Tuesday I believe, before Winter break, and it became apparent to some members of the hall that they had unfinished business to attend to—and by unfinished business, I mean unfinished bottles of alcohol. So, at about one in the morning, my friend Sarah barged into my room drunk as a skunk. Now, Sarah drunk is unlike any other drunk in the world as far as I’m concerned, as she can only see by squinting one eye and having the other wide open, and her attention span is about as good as a moldy peach. In my mind, this is the perfect time to mess with her mind a little bit, you know, help her to better entertain me and our friends. So me, Kendra, and my roommate Beth, who were all present in my room at the time of her arrival, decided to joke around with Sarah, but we soon realized that minimal to no effort on our part was required to be entertained by her in her current state—so we just sat back and watched.
Her first obstacle was to climb onto my bed, which is something she does on a daily basis as she thinks my bed is her bed as well—she’s wrong. She completed her first obstacle with ease. This surprised all of us, as my bed is perched a good three feet above the floor, but not to worry, because before I could congratulate her for a climb-well-done, she plunged that very three feet right back to the ground. They say cats always land on their feet, but Sarah is a human, not a cat, so she landed on her face—that was a good laugh. Then she chose to sit on my roommate’s bed, a much better choice, as it was only about a foot and a half off the ground.
Both Kendra and Beth were sitting on the bed as well, so they decided to make it a little interesting and began to tickle Sarah. I must say it was hilarious to watch her drunkenly squirm as they tickled her—and then she fell onto the floor, right into my standing fan tower, which in turn fell over and cracked—rest in peace fan of mine. I then devoted the next week to torturing her about how my fan was broken inevitably and explaining how I kept sweating because I couldn’t use it. My fan really was ruined, but the sweating spiel was just my way of pulling out the guilt card on Sarah just mess with her head—I enjoyed it—and to this day she still has a piece of paper hanging on her wall that reads “Dear Sarah-My fan is fucked, Love, Allie D”.
Late Night Closet Visitor
Initiation parties are known to be a raging good time full of blacking out and making out—not mistaking your closet for a restroom. It had been a long six weeks of pledging for me and the other girls, Michelle, Sarah, Mary, and Sasha, on the floor who took part in the process, and they all couldn’t wait to break the dry spell and pour liquor down their throats like its 1919 and prohibition starts tomorrow. This is what Sasha did—to a great extent—and was record-breaking drunk when she returned home to her dorm room later that evening, or early the next morning, however you choose to put it.
Not only did she not remember the party at all, but she threw up all over her room, and on her roommate Kendra’s arm—what a mess—but it gets better. While Kendra was trying to sleep, she heard Sasha rustling with the noisy closet doors and looked to see what was happening. She then looked up to find her roommate no where in sight. Some two minutes later, a half-naked Sasha opened the door, stepped out, closed the closet and returned to her bed. Kendra was confused, as anyone who witnessed what she did would be, and had to further investigate the situation. As it turns out, Sasha mistook her closet for the bathroom, and turned her hamper into a navy-blue, mesh toilet—I’m sure you can all see the resemblance. The next morning, I walked through the halls to find a pile of clothes sitting in the hallway just outside Sasha’s room. When I asked what it was doing there she told me it was the clothing she urinated on last night so she put it in the hall to air out—talk about airing your dirty laundry in public!
The Odd Bartender
They call it “rush” for a reason, because it is, in every sense of the word exhausting, and after rushing from nine in the morning to eight at night, all I wanted to do was relax—if I had only known what was waiting for me in my dorm room. It was Super bowl Sunday, and my roommate who had just initiated herself into the world of underage drinking after liberating herself from a three year relationship, wanted to show the world, so she decided to have a mini Super bowl party while I was out.
My roommate is the type of girl who lives life one way—her way. There’s really no room for anyone else to mold her, a trait that I respect on occasion, but she seems to have molded herself into a socially awkward teenager with a size eleven shoe. She is very intelligent, when you give her a book, but I have a theory that if you put her in a four by four cage with a bowl of food, she’d starve to death. From my description I am sure one would assume we have our differences, which is a correct assumption, but we just don’t see eye-to-eye—literally and figuratively, as she is six feet tall and I just reach 5’5. Despite our differences, we get along, if that’s what you call not speaking and keeping to ourselves, but we are civil in the sense that she has yet to murder me in my sleep.
The party would have been fine by me if she had handled the situation with her brain instead of just a bottle of booze, for when I returned from rushing I found bottles of full, empty, and newly opened alcoholic beverages lining both mine and my roommate’s desks. When this scene appeared before me, it became more of a still-life painting. It baffled my mind and perplexed me in every way possible. You see, one reason Beth apparently wanted to room with me was because I don’t drink, and so she knew that there would be no alcohol in the room. But of course now that she ditched her boyfriend to have a love affair with alcohol, what did it matter what I thought?
Now, there are many scary things in life—spiders, terrorist attacks, the bathroom at Acropolis—but when I’m mad, the toilet seat in a bar seems like a vacation.
I stormed out of my room and into Sasha and Kendra’s to vent like the good little Jewish girl that I am. I screamed at Kendra, for no reason other than just being angry, and I left the room with the door slamming behind me—exits speak louder than words. I walked down the hall to Sarah’s room, because it was her birthday, and I bought her a round of wings to share with her as a celebratory feast. As we sat on the floor munching away, steam was pouring out of my ears, and not from the wings because we stuck with mild, but from anger. Pure, genuine, anger. Sasha eventually made her way over to Sarah’s room and discovered me in my detrimental state. She was angry for me because of what my roommate did, so she decided something needed to be done. Let’s just say about five minutes later my RA, Kevin, knocked on Sarah’s door asking to speak with me when I had a minute, and once I finished up with the wings I made my way into the lounge to converse with him.
It turns out that someone; I wonder who, tipped Kevin off to the underage drinking that was taking place in my room, so he took a little trip over to scope out the situation. Upon knocking on the door, my roommate apparently hid one of the bottles of booze in her UGG boot—welcome to college. He notified me that he wrote her up, and with that newly inquired information I was officially scared to sleep in my room that night, as I feared my roommate would actually suffocate me in my sleep. Kevin and I spoke about the situation for a while, and then once I returned to my room, my roommate confronted me about the situation and apologized—this surprised me. Beth and I talked it out for a little while, and we both explained what bothered us about the situation, and then I asked her if I was safe to sleep in the room that night. She laughed and assured me I’d be safe, but I still waited a good two hours after her head hit the pillow before I got ready for bed—just to play it safe.
No Boys Allowed
It was about three AM on a Thursday, and I was partaking in my routine nightly bathroom visit. As I was standing at the sink, brushing my teeth and chatting with a friend, the door opened, and in came a boy in his underwear. He looked surprised to see us, which was odd because it was an all girls floor, thus we were in an all girls bathroom, but nonetheless he exited the lavatory immediately. No more than a minute later, Mary came into the bathroom requesting permission for her “friend” to use the bathroom as he was really drunk and apparently the four and a half foot walk to the men’s room in the lobby was too much for him to handle. Now, I’m not a total bitch all the time, so I agreed to let him use the girls restroom, and just went on minding my own business.
The next morning I told my fellow floor mates about the situation that I encountered last night, and they too said they had a similar experience with one of Mary’s boys, probably the same one, on previous occasions. For the next week or so, night after night, we would find that Mary’s “friend” had used our bathroom repetitively, as we would often find the seat had been left up, and surprise, he had poor aim. It began to become a burden, so we knew something had to be done. Of course, we handled it like teenagers, thus we handled it like children and I made a sign to post on the bathroom door that read: “This is a GIRLS bathroom which means NO BOYS ALLOWED!” Immediately we heard Mary’s laugh and rapid footsteps that seemed to move from the bathroom, to Mary’s room, back to the bathroom, followed by more laughing, then back into Mary’s room followed by a door slamming. Typical Mary—never one to be discrete in her actions.
Sasha and I, the authors of the sign, ran out to see what all the fuss was, when we noticed Mary added a little something of her own to our sign—“I’m a huge bitch” now graced the white sheet of computer paper—lovely, profanity always wins big. Sasha decided to write “A.K.A Mary” next to it, and before we knew it we heard her reaction to seeing her name next to what she had just wrote. She was shocked. Eventually we took down the sign, which is currently hanging on the bulletin board in Sasha’s room, and I think Mary got the point, because the boy in the boxer-briefs hasn’t been seen in our bathroom since.
In The End
Gas is to cars, as gossip is to teenage girls. Cars cannot function without gas—enough of this corn-powered-car crap—and teenage girls rely on gossip to get them through the day. Both gas and gossip pollute the air, so they have more in common than you think. I am ashamed to admit it, but I thrive on gossip, and being at the epicenter for gossip, a floor full of freshmen girls, I find gossip as easy as I find condoms in the bathroom trashcan. No matter how you look at the life of a teenage girl, especially those just recently set free into the college world—the word gossip is bound to surface at some point. The truth is, gossip is an unstoppable force, and I’m convinced that if teenage girls put only half as much effort into researching educational topics as they do into researching gossip sites, cancer would be cured and polar ice caps would stop melting.