She was never the hall that caught your eye. She was a mousy little hall that perpetually had a layer of dust across her face. She had spirit, but it was hard to see for she hid it in her dingy little bathrooms. After years of neglect, with students running through her without as much as a “thank you,” Girvetz hid her potential for fear it wouldn’t be appreciated, or worse, wouldn’t be seen when presented.
She was the Cinderella of halls, with no glass slipper in sight. There was no prince charming: Harold Frank Hall was fucking Buchanan, and Phelps and Ellison were too busy sucking each other off to notice if either of them caught fire. There was no fairy godmother; the architects built her walls to keep in sadness and her windows to keep out light. Girvetz did not conceptualize herself as the princess who transforms but rather saw herself as the kitchen wench who didn’t get to go to the ball in the first place.
She was tired. Tired of pretentious TAs calling tech support when her projectors take a moment to warm up. Tired of frat boys spilling piss on her classic bathroom tiling. Tired of scribblings etched into her skin. You can only push someone so far before they … blow.
It was the morning, early Week One when she took her revenge. Beautiful little Girvy exploded. She took all the anger, the profound sadness in her soul and forced it out. The doors of her bathroom stalls flew open and she spat on us with the water from her toilets. Her pipes, constricted with the gunk of indignance, rejected the flow that they had known for so long and forced everything we forced on her back in our faces. It was magnificent, it was brutal, it was what we deserved. As God struck Noah’s world with a massive flood, Girvetz struck us with her wrath as well.
The above is based on true events
A. Wiessass is sexually attracted to HSSB.