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Rhiannon. Revolts. It's that simple.
9/29/2004
Chapter the Thirty-First Call me privileged. In all seriousness, I shouldn't be bitching so much about the insanity that is the new dining system here at Smith. But here we are, a month in, and the lines are still insane. Oh, dear dear Glee Clubbers, Orchestra players, crewbies, and field hockey team, I know we're right across the street, but most of you, unless you're handicapped, can make it home for dinner (unless you're an omnivore living in Washburn/Hubbard, in which case you're excused on account of meat). It's September, the weather hasn't gotten too bad yet (yes, I know it's pouring from hurricanes, but get an umbrella). You can walk back to the Quad. Or hell, even just to Lamont or Chapin, for the love of god. It's just ludicrous when those of us who've been eating here for two or three years, those of us who live around this dining hall, have to wait ten minutes to get a fucking fajita. I've heard this even from the most patient housemates I KNOW. But I suppose I shouldn't throw the blame entirely on the attitudes of Smith students. Part of it is the fact that this is all due to budget cuts. Well, they didn't take into the effect that my dining hall is designed as a bottleneck, and that the kitchen cannot be expanded. You run into the house, the dining room, or the parking lot, and the dining room can't be expanded because next door is a historic site used in a rather famous film. Which is now, with a slight touch of irony, faculty offices. Essentially, I have no solution. And neither do The Powers That Be. Typical, but still painful. |
