As a returning Residential Advisor, I had high expectations of the freshmen on my hall. Two semesters of WestCo had kept my head swimming, bobbing up and down in a sea of illicit narcotics and idol worship like a slave before a sultan. But there is nothing, nothing, that could have prepared me for the intensity that is Butterfield B, rooms 101 to 105 and 201 to 215.
I preface this by saying that, yes, it is pity that I feel for other ResLife staff members—it must be difficult to deal with such plebian problems such as dirty bathrooms and noise violations. I waste my time with none of that. I have had the good fortune to waltz into a hall filled with nigh-un-CR-able freshmen and sophomores who know What The Deal Is. In a profession that is derived in no small part from an amalgam of The Sims and cattle herding, such mythical halls are only whispered about.
Take Catherine Ngo—she spent the last three years acting as a driving force between several Nordic black metal upstarts, including 1349 and Thorr’s Hammer. Jerri Diaz rode a tornado across the West and carved the Grand Canyon with her ring-finger. Alpay Koralturk is in the midst of completing a functional proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem. Mike Zimmerman—I would not be surprised if he possessed the ability to go back in time and pull a Sweet Chin Music maneuver on Hitler himself. As for Alison Coyner—well, we’ll just say that many, many lives continue to rest in her capable hands.
What I’m obviously trying to get at is that everyone in my hall is someone you should know. I’m not writing this because they don’t have friends. They have plenty of friends and they might not even need people like you. I’m blessed with an unstoppable phalanx of Butterfield class and I wholeheartedly encourage you to come by, this weekend perhaps, and chill out with the folks who rule the school. It’s totally in your best interest.
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