Adam Booker, class of 2020, did what many students do each break. He stayed on campus.
“Financially, I could go home,” said Booker. “But I’d rather save the money and spend it on StarCraft. Yeah, it’s an old game, but it fills a hole in my heart like nothing else can.”
For spring break, while many were away partying it up in exotic locations or hanging out at home, Adam was also having the time of his life in beautiful South Bend, Indiana. Through carefree days of sleeping until 3 p.m., playing video games, and near virtuosic levels of masturbation, Booker was happy as a college-aged clam. Booker was so happy, he didn’t leave his bed for 36 straight hours.
“It was amazing! It was like the whole world was my oyster. I could do anything I wanted! So I did something I’ve dreamed of since coming to college: Literally nothing. No club meetings, no classes, no accidentally walking in on your roommate shaving his back with your razor. Just me and my bed. I get to sleep, and, if I can’t sleep, I can play StarCraft. And if I get bored of StarCraft, I can play Skyrim. And if I get bored of Skyrim, I can play with the world-wide web, and myself.”
Truly, Adam was living in any college man’s dreamland. But all was not well, as Adam realized he would eventually have to leave his bed. He had run out of bed snacks, his hamstrings were cramping, and he needed to eat. But due to Adam living in Stanford Hall, North Dining hall was waaaaaaay too far away.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. “All I had was half a loaf of potato bread I bought in October. Not prime eating,” he said. “But I know if I tried to hike through South Bend’s spring snow drifts, I would encounter certain death. Or, at least, I’d get pretty cold.”
Booker did what he had to do. He toasted the more than slightly stale bread, and ate it quickly, before he could become aware of his own sedentary decline. The bread went down slowly, but held firm in Booker’s stomach.
“Mission accomplished, baby,” he concluded. “That toast should last me at least until Thursday. Time to go sleep 15 more hours, beat some quests and, most importantly, beat my meat. Spring break fucking rocks.”
With that, Booker receded into his room, as a hermit crab retreats to the confines of its shell. Except, hermit crabs probably don’t masturbate, because they love Jesus. Just think, while you were off partying somewhere overpriced with state school kids who are way cooler than you, Adam Booker was happier than a geoduck spraying (look that up if you don’t know what it is). But you also probably had a good time, so who’s to say which was better.
Adam’s break. Adam’s break was better.
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