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Social activity

“Still many students said they thought it was an unwise decision to leave remnants from section parties and concerts to sit for 48 hours, given the general increase in social activity across campus on weekend nights.... Several housekeepers declined to comment on the change to the schedule.”—“Cleaning cuts draw complaints” in The Chronicle, Oct. 9, 2009.

To whom it may concern:  

I’m not commenting on this issue, but if I had to, I’d be glad to share.

I hate Mondays.

I walk into the dorm at 7 a.m. sharp and I am immediately smacked in the face by the stench of the three-day-old social activity I will shortly be cleaning up. Upon entering the hall, I immediately notice that lack of usual fluorescent light. As I look up to see what remains of the socially activitied plastic cover, I also notice the exit sign dangling by a wire—$300 of social activity that I hope was worth it.

My gaze slides down, and I note a red-and-yellow liquid sprayed on the white wall that I can only assume to be social activity. Somebody didn’t make it to the trash can just four feet away. I do, however, appreciate whoever was courteous enough to pull the fire extinguisher pin and spray some social activity on it. That really helped.

Of course, the trash cans are all overflowing with social activity, some even flipped on their sides during the previous night’s social activity. Down at the far end of the hall, I see a social activity table placed on two recycling bins, cluttered with wounded social activities. Outside of door 113, as usual, lies a pair of frilly social activities—this morning, red lace—crumpled against the wall.

A few stoic steps toward the bathroom, and I’m greeted by the familiar sound of squishing carpet. A darkened, four-foot, semi-circular stain marks the entrance to the men’s room. Ah, that magical carpet that absorbs more social activity than a storm drain in the red light district. Beer, liquor, sweat, blood and whatever other social activity these kids spill at night form a frat runoff that must go somewhere. All I know is I’ve never seen it or had to clean it up.

I open the door to the bathroom to see what I’ll be facing.

Kiddie pool night, I remember. Again.

It’s still half-full of social activity. Some male student had social activitied all over the stall, and I even found a massive, stinky social activity on the floor. And don’t even get me started on whoever left her bloody social activity in the corner.

All of a sudden, I hear the shower curtain rustling loudly. Worried I’d shortly be exposed to a male student’s social activity, I panic for a moment.

Then I remember. Over weekends of increased social activity, the environment in the showers was such that a living, biological social activity could somehow, in 72 hours, evolve a limb-like structure. I sigh and go back to the hall to get the machete from my cart.

At least I have Saturdays off.

All my best,

House Keeper

P.S. This is all off-the-record. Oh, and I quit.

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