8 AM. Wednesday.
A crowd of freshmen stand in the Rutledge common room, staring at the expo residue on their whiteboard where the Community Living Standards had once been. Scared. Confused. Perhaps, I sense, almost excited? Would we be able to live together in peace and harmony without law, but with love?
The violence started when Victor Herman burst into the common room and demanded to know who had taken his clothes out of the washing machine. Megan O’Sullivan stood in turn and declared that it was the responsibility of each person to make sure they are present when their cycle ends. Luke Wallington then proclaimed that whoever intended to touch his laundry should first be prepared to meet their god, and the situation quickly devolved into an all-out brawl. The laundry room is now a full-fledged war of all against all fought with textbooks and extraneous dorm room furniture. Only the strongest and most brutal stagger away with clean clothes.
People group together for protection, but these alliances never last. To most, these are terrible times, but it is clear that there are some people who have come to inexplicably enjoy the internecine violence. A reverential mythology has developed, placing those warriors who force their claim to the soil soaked with blood and detergent in a never-ending cycle of combat spiraling towards the apocalypse. In a heartfelt speech, Rutledge resident Andrew Lawrence made the last stand for civilization, proposing a system in which clothes should be left alone for ten minutes after the cycle ends and a text message sent to the GroupMe before their removal. His words of reason inspired the ire of the writhing mob, which ripped his clothes out of the washing machine mid-cycle, threw them on the floor, urinated on them, and skewered them on a stick in the middle of the common room. In time, they came to call this monstrosity Blibdoolpoolp, the Piss-God.
Requiring medicine for an illness I had developed, I dared to exit my suite in an attempt to get to a doctor. I was quickly abducted, and brought before the skewered pile of soggy clothes. One person in the crowd of lunatics surrounding me demanded that I offer them a tribute of tide pods. When I tried to explain to her that I had none, I was interrupted by a sudden, simultaneous chant of “TALK TO THE PISS-GOD! TALK TO THE PISS-GOD!” Facing their idol, I pleaded for forgiveness. I was certain they were going to kill me, until finally Sam, our RA, came bursting into the room. “What the fuck?” he said, looking down on us with wary astonishment. The crowd of crazed and bloodied students around him stood dumbstruck, until they slowly began to sob, falling to their knees before him.
All the residents of Rutledge Hall are scheduled to view an hour-long student stage performance about conflict resolution. Rutledge residents are already complaining, calling it “stupid” and “pointless.”