Darkroom Comedy

You've got to be joking. Maybe if it weren't all happening at once and to me I'd think it was funny.

Last night, after sitting in the library freezing my ass off, watching the senior librarian explain to me for the second time how to use the online book catalog for THREE HOURS (keep in mind, these would be hours 4, 5, and 6 for me, as opposed to the rest of my Spanish Senior Seminar), I trudged back to the darkroom to finish my project. Said project, aka "An exercise in Futility" by Thea Williamson, salvaging photos from ruined negatives with nonexistent photo paper to print on, didn't start until 1:00 am, due to an excess of students in the darkroom.

Also loitering among the toxic, funeral parlor-esque chemicals was another hanger-on of indeterminate origin. Some cute blonde artsy chick that clearly didn't have a purpose. It was beautiful: she was consummately supurfluous, and always right in my path on the way from the enlarger to the developer. Hanging on to some guy in our class, the paragon of the 'hipster' aesthetic. Short choppy blonde hair pinned back in an oh-so-deliberatey mussed fashion by bobby pins, one highlighted chunk of bangs a shade more platinum than her natural color; a dubiously "handmade" courderoy skirt with brightly colored stitching over baggy jeans, topped off with paint-spattered shoes and yes, legwarmers. Cable knitted olive green FRAYED legwarmers.

Why is it that every guy I've seen lately is irresistably drawn to vapidity? She actually said at one point: "Oops! oh, my God!, I'm *so* sorry I bumped you! Did I ruin the picture." And she used the asterisks. Her friend graciously replied "Uh, yeah. I can just reprint it, it's no big deal." Why must people like this exist in my immediate vicinity, let alone within my 6 feet of personal space?

It's time to get off campus. Out of the state, preferrably.