My car thermometer says that it's ten degrees outside, but it's a known liar. I'd put the actual temperature at half that. Add in wind chill, and it feels like it's even less. Flurries of dry, powdery snow drift across the parking lot, only to pile up against hundreds of pairs of booted feet. My coat isn't quite enough to make being outside bearable.
I really can't emphasize this enough. It's not just standard winter cold. It's ball clenching, teeth aching, lung burning cold. Freezing. Algid. Frore. Rimy. Glacial. Bum-fuck-cold. Whatever you want to call it, it's not fun. I'm not built for cold weather. I've got less insulation on me than an aluminum aircraft hanger in the Bahamas! I'm a railroad tie with wire-framed glasses!
I'm telling you this to set the scene. See, the reason I'm outside, instead of at home, ensconced inside the cocoon I've piled together from every piece of insulating material in my room with a chemical heating pad stuck down my shirt, is that some stupid fuck pulled the fire alarm.
Why?
Sweet merciful raptor Jesus, why!?
Of course, since I'm writing this, you could, justifiably, come to the conclusion that I'm back at home. This is true. It still doesn't change the fact that I and four hundred other students spent a quarter of an hour rapidly solidifying in the parking lot.
Beware, alarm-puller. Beware, for you have summoned the wrath of four hundred angry, poorly fed college students. If your identity is uncovered, we will descend upon you swiftly and silently. Our ramen-fueled vengeance will not be stayed by petty human concepts like "mercy" or "dry cleaning bills". We will sacrifice our quarters at the temple of "Laundromat" to wash the crimson tide from our outerwear. WE WILL NOT BE STOPPED!
-QT, hungry for justice. And tacos.
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