Ah, yes, Zoom University: Where academia goes to die! While there have been a lot of bothersome parts about online classes, one thing that has recently been, uh how do I say this politely, tearing me apart from the fucking inside out, is the fact that I have to see the dirty rooms of my straight, male counterparts five days a week. Yes, these rooms have seen better days, and so have my eyes. 

There is nothing like greeting your professor while sitting in front of a “Saturdays are for the Boys” flag. I’m looking at you Chase. You know what Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays are for? Education! Oh, and also for throwing away that half-drunk, week-old can of Four Loko sitting on your desk.

I swear, some of these rooms look like Chernobyl. I’ve been tempted on a few occasions to call up Ty Pennington to assess the damage. There are days when I bring my Swiffer WetJet to virtual classes and wait for the perfect moment to drop a hint. I’ve seen dirty socks in places where I should never see dirty socks. I’m assuming that their “full send” stickers are referring to the cleaning lady that they sent home. With all of that being said, I do recognize that things could be much worse. 

Every day I thank the Lord that Zoom is not scratch and sniff. Ugh, I’m wincing just thinking about it! If that technology is ever invented, I will drop out of school and move back home with my parents. I will change my name. Yes, I’d leave the life that I love behind to avoid the smell of Chase’s dirty stank cave. But for the time being, until they develop a smell transfer technology, I will resort to huffing balls of EOS while I try to ignore the rogue pair of underwear hanging on the chair behind Chase. And on the 7th day, God created hampers… 

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