A Story About Copious Amounts of Water

The morning air outside was fresh. A new day beckoned me to leave the confines of my bed. I chose a new pair of jeans and a new crisp long-sleeve striped collared, button-up shirt with which to clothe my Irish Spring soap-scented sentient self. And a new pair of black LA Gear sneakers shod upon my feet, I grabbed my sack of books, ran some light blue hair gel through my one-inch thick head mop, took a peak in the vanity glass, and locked the door behind me. I took three stairs at a time ready to learn accouting for 3 hours, followed by lunch, one-and-a-half hours of World War II history, and 3 more hours of accounting project work.

A dismal gloom met me as I looked across the East Laville lobby and through the glass door. A steady downpour greeted my icy gaze. Rain, rain. My lips curled in anger, I took four stairs at a time back to my room, quickly fumbled about for my high school cross-country black hoodie, covered my head with its hood, and dashed out into the elements.

A miserable 10 minute walk to the Center for Business and Engineering Administration ensued. Jumping into seas of water much to copious to be considered puddles, I felt my clothes weighing me down. Each step became heavier, wetter, and more accursed than the last.

Slightly late to class, I walked in, like a supersaturated wet noodle, and sat behind the uproarious laughter of Jonathan Buras. As class began, from my spot at the back of the classroom, I took off my shoes and socks. Wringing out my socks, a river of water began to weave through the desks. Rolling up my pant legs, I began to shiver. Every square nanometer of my body was wet and chilled.

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6:00 p.m. Still drying out.

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6:00 p.m. Next day. Dead graphing calculator. Books and notebooks, as well as high school hoodie still thoroughly soaked. Finals will be interesting this semester.

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Lesson: Have 10 $1.00 umbrellas on hand at any given time. Or alternatively, don't try and be a hero and go to class at LSU when heaven is crying.