By: Kyle Kowalski
It’s 12:00 PM on a Tuesday. I’m hungry, you’re hungry, why can’t I just reach my hands over the counter and snag a scoop of queso with my bare hands. The line has stretched all the way to Furman because Zackary can’t decide between sourdough and pretzel bread even though he has a gluten allergy. This Commodore Blend(ing my innards) isn’t exactly staving off my imminent starvation either. In this state of mind, it’s easy for anyone to repeat the mistake I’m about to make.
Now, keep in mind, I’m in a fraternity. I don’t like vegetables because they’re not $ick. Anything green (other than my dad’s money) immediately leaves a gross taste in my mouth. Or potentially that’s because I’ve been substituting mouthwash for El Jimador for the past week. CVS is far, ok? Anyways, I normally scoff at the toppings station because all I want is salami and cheese. But beneath my crumpled mask, it came out as a ‘bleseahl’. Mistakenly, this indicated I wanted basil aioli on my sandwich, so the Randwich lady passed off my scrumptious meal with delicious sauce dripping all over the sandwich. So I eat it, ok? I’m hungry and at the current pace of remaking a sandwich, the students behind me will have my head faster than the Jacobins.
I hate to say it. Basil Aioli isn’t too shabby. I expected an ounce of green in my body to make my esophagus erupt like Mt. Vesuvius. But it didn’t. Is this a surprising challenge to my preconceived notions that I refuse to adjust in any shape or form? No, obviously it’s a one time fluke and the only suitable sauce for my pale skin is a copious amount of mayo. So I keep getting the basil aioli on my sandwich each day, waiting for it to slip up and reveal its terrible taste to me. Somehow, and I have no idea how Big Rand sneaks it by me, but the sandwich continues to taste great each day. It’s absurd, ludicrous, downright risible!
With all these basil aioli sandwiches I’ve been eating, my appetite has really begun to grow. My morning coffee and cereal just don’t cut it anymore. I’ve started to bring a bag of granola to munch on during class because I really just need some good whole grains in my tummy to start the day right. It’s extra crunchy so everyone can hear my health. People have no idea what kind of poison they’re putting in their body with all these sugary foods. I’ve even switched to oat milk and honey in my french-pressed coffee, it just really helps me meet my natural needs. Funnily enough, it even helps me sleep better. Students nowadays just don’t understand the benefits of going to bed at 9:00 PM.
If it wasn’t too obvious already, I’ve decided to join the climbing team. This spinach wrap inside me is screaming for release, to taste the cold, hard rock of a wall outside Stevenson. My brain is a flurry of Nat Geo mountains just waiting to be scrambled over. Crag this, lead that, jug on! It’s as if my thoughts are a Bop-It™ for someone with hearing loss. But it doesn’t matter. The rocks beckon me, my fingers yearning for their craggy embrace. No, it doesn’t matter that I pay $100 for an air-conditioned Youfit disguised as a climbing gym. It also doesn’t matter that I have yet to venture past Charlotte Pike. I’m a climber in spirit.