What? You spend thirty minutes in one art history class and suddenly you think you're Frank Fucking Gehry? You have no idea what you're talking about. You couldn't tell a Gothic building from Bauhaus if you had your head shoved right up its buttresses. Sorry? What was that? Something about me looking boring? Gosh, I guess it's hard to hear you with your mouth full of Johnny Ive's minimalist cock. But hey, I don't take it personally. Because I know this isn't about me; it's about you.
You think I'm dirty? You stumble to class with filthy pajama pants and a face caked with sweat. Think I'm ugly? You're the one waddling to the dining hall to squeeze another fifteen pounds into your thighs. You complain that I'm out of place with the rest of campus, while you spend every night worrying you don't fit in at this school. Don't like me? Maybe you should look in the mirror. You want to be the elegant, knowledge-filled, neo-classical library, but honey, you ain't. You're just like me -- a boring, plain-faced, unwashed monster.
And you should be proud of it.
We're the heart of this university, you and I. We are the the grunting, greasy engines that keep this place moving. We do what we have to, and we do it in the most efficient way possible -- the bare minimum. We don't flaunt our shit, we just GET THE JOB DONE. My four walls and a ceiling are your four AM essays. My half-rusted railings are your half-finished readings. We put the "good" in "good enough" and the "factory" in "satisfactory."
People wanna knock us down? Ha! They can't! You see, the university will never brag about us, and after a few years go by they would just as soon pretend we don't exist. But guess who they come crawling back the minute they have budget problems. Yeah. That's right.
So the next time you see me, maybe instead of laughing or grimacing you stop and ask yourself what's on the INSIDE. In my case, it's a shit ton of freshmen. They would never put those losers in a nice building.