Imagine this, Reader: you are walking along Commonwealth Avenue, passing the caffeine-shocked eyes of Pavement Coffee. Your stomach rumbles. You didn’t eat breakfast this morning. Comm Ave’s wind tunnel roars in your ears. Like a gaspy lion. Sorry, I digress.

You start to question why you didn’t eat breakfast today. Was it because you woke up at 1 PM and the only semblance of breakfast at Warren Towers was a deformed apple? That couldn’t be it, you love apples. All apples, no matter the size and color. Your favorite is Grandma’s Sweet Reds, a hybrid of Granny Smith and the rare Macoun. Where did you find this apple? It doesn’t seem to appear on Google when you search “apple types.”

Was it at your uncle’s apple orchard in Verm—wait, someone’s walking toward you and smiling. It looks like Will. Yeah, hey Will, what’s up? You’re still thinking about your uncle’s apple orchard. Will is getting closer. He hasn’t initiated the salutations. You don’t do anything, you’re just a follower. He’s smiling, though. Maybe he thinks he’s too far away to say anything yet.

What do you do? Say “Hi!”? But you’re also too far. Wave? Yeah, wave. Casual. Maybe even a little cool. Do you smile back at him? Yeah that’s normal. Who waves without a smile? What sort of psycho does that? Okay. Do it. Wave and half-smile. Done. Oh. No. Oh no oh no oh no.

That’s not Will. This guy waves back at you but he’s confused. He doesn’t know you. You just remembered Will is out of town. You’ve never seen this guy in your life. Why didn’t you think about that before you waved? The apples? Your uncle? Your uncle doesn’t even have an apple orchard in Vermont! He lives in Altoona, Pennsylvania! There are no orchards there!

Why weren’t you paying attention? You realize the weight of what you’ve just done. You walk away quickly, almost half-jogging. What if you see that guy again? That’s so embarrassing. You have to leave BU. You have to leave Boston. Save yourself the embarrassment. Where are the transfer forms? Get out as quickly as possible.

“You” is not really you, Reader. “You” is me. This happened to me. It’s been a week and I still haven’t found the transfer forms. I have looked everywhere. Countless transfer websites, which only transfer me to other transfer websites until I’ve looped through the same ten websites about types of transfers (disease, mail, email, you know the kind).

I looked in the Allocations Board budget, my FY101 folder, and my OrgSync profile—because transferring is an activity students do! I mean, these forms have to be more readily available for situations like this. What are we, the students at Boston University, supposed to do in a situation that puts our lives at stake? Although it’s mostly a matter of self-image, we reserve the right for quick and efficient transferring.

I’ve reviewed double-u double-u double-u dot CollegeBoard dot com—spelled out to avoid possible copyright infringement—and BU’s Student Government code; neither sources possess the forms I need. It’s like BU does not want me to leave. He wants me to suffer. “He” being Rhett. I imagine he sits on his over-plush dog bed on Saturdays, chewing a diamond bone with peanut butter inside, barking in enjoyment over the torture he brings upon us students.

Let us out of your cage, Rhett!

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