College Life: Love and Tests

The following is a biweekly (That means twice a week, right? It doesn’t? Once every two weeks? Seriously? What’s the word for two times a week? Oh it is biweekly? Cool.) column in which I cover a number of different aspects pertaining to freshman year. Hopefully, this will be a good idea and will be interesting. Some of these recaps will make you laugh, some will make you cry, but they will always be mostly true. Of course, some names and dates have been changed to protect the innocent.

It was a Wednesday night and I had my first test in my 20th Century British History Class. I studied for a few hours before deciding to go to bed early so as to be fully rested and prepared for the first test of my college career. So, as nine thirty rolled around, I closed my books and went to bed. I was intent upon having a relaxing, stress free night. I drifted off into what I hoped would be a peaceful sleep.

The peace did not last long. No sooner had I closed my eyes did I start having a very weird dream. I mean really weird. In this dream, for some reason that was never fully explained to me, the Northern Ireland-Ireland conflict became violent again. And I was inexplicably named the U.S. ambassador to Ireland. I was charged with smoothing the situation over.

Now, I know very little about Ireland and even less about Northern Ireland, so you might imagine how daunting this task sounded. So, the dream version of myself flew to Belfast and met with leaders of both sides of the conflict. And let me tell you, I was a masterful negotiat0r. I was helping make compromises and concessions all over the place. I was incredible.

Just as the two sides were about to shake hands and reach a peace, I began to hear a noise. The two men with whom I was negotiating did not seem to notice the noise, but it began to bother me. It was growing louder and I was finally able to discern its source. It was a woman moaning. My roommate had brought a girl home.

The noise grew disturbing enough so that it finally woke me up. I was unable to broker peace between Dream Ireland and Dream Northern Ireland. Perhaps it was for the best because, after all, what type of meaningful peace agreement can be met if the parties are distracted by two people going at it in the background? (I think this might be the problem with all the Israeli- Palestinian attempts at peace.)

After having woke up, I tried desperately to fall asleep, but the sounds became progessively louder and, unfortunately, progressively more graphic. It finally reached the point where it basically sounded like I was trying to fall asleep with late night Cinemax blasting in the background. I figured I had three choices. I could search underneath my pillow for a sharp object I could stab myself in the ear with in hopes that I puncture my ear drum and lose my hearing. I could continue to try and fall asleep in hopes that the sexcapades would be over soon. Or, I could let the two of them know I had woken up by excusing myself from the room and letting the two of them have at it in private.

I fell asleep while debating the best course of action.

Two hours later I found myself awake once more. My roommate and his lady friend had finished their activities and were now sleeping. It was my bladder that woke me. I climbed out of bed and into the hallway, careful not to make too much noise. I would hate to be disruptive.

I walked into the communal bathroom and went to the toilet to do my business. Suddenly, from the shower stalls ten feet to my right, I heard a familiar refrain. I heard moaning and giggling and all other sorts of R- rated sounds. Two people were doing it in there.

My initial thought was that I hoped they were using protection. I mean, I put sandals on my feet when I go in there just to shower. I can only imagine what sort of equipment I would need to feel clean if I were to do that in there.

I hurried out of the bathroom and back to my room. I looked at my alarm clock before getting into bed. It read 3:15 AM. In the past six hours I had heard four people fucking each other. And what did I do? I nearly squashed a conflict that had already been over for nearly 20 years. Where’s the justice in that?

I suppose I found justice the following morning when I, too, got fucked… by my first British History Exam.

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