I have been living in the dorms for five semesters. I lived in Schuylkill Hall (the Dog Pound) for two semesters, and in Beck Hall for three semesters.
For the first year, the entire on-campus dormitory life was crammed with jolly new friends, recreation, and support from the staff.
Now, going into my sixth semester, I am mentally nauseated with the dorm life.
I am exhausted with trying to maintain peaceful simplicity with my hall mates.
I am tired of attempting to be a nice guy to students that won’t cooperate with mere regulations such as stereo volume.
I am tired of trying to get some sleep while a caffeine charged freshman is running around the halls, bumping into metal trash cans, and causing a commotion.
I am tired of having to go to wing meetings because someone couldn’t handle their liquor and vomited on the bathroom tiles.
I am tired of having to go to the library to do reading assignments because I cannot concentrate at my own desk.
I am sick of being a part of this group, and wish to get out of my housing contract for the spring of ’95 semester.
I aimed to find an apartment on Main St. to live in, but could not do so by your mid-November deadline. Maybe this deadline was an ample time limit, but I could not find an apartment until after the date.
Now, I have found a place to live with my own bedroom and friends as roommates. But I find myself stuck in 226 Beck Hall again.
The roommate that I had this semester, fall of ’94, was the only fellow that I could get along with. Sadly, though, he is dropping out, and I will be given a new roommate.
My parents pay for my housing, and are sick of hearing about this crap. If a little note from mommy is necessary, I will alert her to write one.
Indeed, I am mentally agitated. But I do not believe in attaining psychological help.
Therefore, I have no letter from a counselor describing how screwed up in the head I am. I believe in solving problems out on my own.
I know that this is all about money and upholding a stable balance. I am not aspiring to rip you or the system off by wanting to get out of the contract.
I know that there exists a list of dozens of students who are trying to get a dorm room.
If I can exit the dorms, students that want to live there can fulfill their desires. And out of my five semesters of living in the dorms, I have never seen a vacant bedroom.
So, I do not see how the Residence Life / Housing Administration will lose any money.
I am also aware of several men living in the third floor television lounge at Beck Hall. This occurred when I lived in Schuylkill Hall too. It seems to me that if I pack my stuff, and depart from the dorm, I would be giving these unfortunate fellows a place to live.
Am I wrong?
I am aware that I will not be able to get my $125 deposit back, but I do not care. I just want to get out of this hell hole.
Sincerely,
Syd Stone
The next day, Mr. Brown’s secretary called me and said I had to schedule an appointment with him. The only available slot was during one of my classes, but I took it anyway. On the day of the appointment, the secretary escorted me to his office. He was sitting in his leather swivel chair, reading my letter. “Hi, how’s it going, Syd?” he asked.
“Hey.”
“Here, have a seat.”
Mr. Brown was chewing on a small piece of gum and loving it, making juicy noises as he read the letter. He took a deep breath and started telling me the policies. From the tone of his voice, it was bleak.
Basically, in order to get out of my housing contract, my parents had to die or get a divorce. The only other way was a medical excuse that was documented and signed by a doctor.
“Alright. Thanks a lot, Mr. Brown. I think I know what I have to do.”
“OK, Syd. Nice meeting you. Will I be hearing from you again?” he asked.
“Yeah, hopefully.” I walked off wondering what the hell I would do. Then it hit me. In the letter, I had said that I was quite crazy. When I got back to my room, I phoned the school Psychology Department and made an appointment with one of the doctors.
The next day, I entered the Psych Department with a morbid suicidal look on my face. The secretary made me fill out a form with a million questions about drugs, alcohol, parents, relationships, sex, and everything else that most people would rather keep secret. She asked me if it was an academic or personal concern.
“Personal,” I said.
I sat down in a cushiony chair and waited. There were pamphlets laying all over the place about how to get As and how to increase your self esteem.
The doctor, a motherly black woman in a red outfit, came out of a back office and greeted me. She led me to her office. I had marked on the form that I was having problems in my relationship and with my peers. The doctor started asking me questions with a gentle and sincere voice.
“Well, this is my first time to see a psychologist. I usually try to solve my problems out on my own. But I’ve come to point where I can’t do it.”
I started to tell her that my girlfriend just left me for another man. Of course, this did really happen in the beginning of the year, but Maddy and I weren’t having problems now.
“Everywhere I go, I see her with this guy. And he lives right down the hall too, in my hallway.”
Then, I started rambling about how I couldn’t get along with my hall mates. The truth was, I got along great with them. What I was telling her were the problems that I had and solved on my own during the previous semester.
“…So, I tried to get out of my housing contract. But it was too late.”
Then the doctor turned into an irritable groaning beast and uttered, “So, you came here.”
“Yeah, sorry to bother you with this.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. I just wish those policies would change at the housing department. They bring so many students in here.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But you’re different. You want to get out of the dorms. Most of the students I get still want to stay on campus somewhere. Are you sure you want to leave?”
“I think it would be the best thing to do.”
“OK, I’ll be right back.” She came back with some forms. I signed them in a few different spots, and I was out of the contract. I walked out feeling a hundred pounds lighter. I skipped through the crisp icy air like a jovial boy headed to the playground.
“Hey, freak!!” screamed a deep satirical voice that could only be Clay’s. He was in a good mood also, and strutted towards me with his knapsack of poetry and books strung around his shoulder. “What’s goin’ on, my man?!” he asked while sticking out his hand. I shook it.
“I’m outta this campus, man. I just got out of my housing contract.”
“How the hell did you do that?”
“I had to visit a doctor and give this bullshit story about how I was going crazy.”
“Cool, man.”
“Well, I’m off to drink a few beers. Murray bought some of that cheap shit last night. Two bucks for a six-pack.”
In my room, I danced around and sipped away while Murray was typing out his last paper of the semester on my Brother word processor.
“C’mon. Be quiet, Syd! I’m almost done. C’mon, stop fucking around!”
I began packing through the clattering sound of the word processor, a thick chain sound of storied victories to come.
Escaping The Dorms
Dear Mr. Brown,
I have been living in the dorms for five semesters. I lived in Schuylkill Hall (the Dog Pound) for two semesters, and in Beck Hall for three semesters.
For the first year, the entire on-campus dormitory life was crammed with jolly new friends, recreation, and support from the staff.
Now, going into my sixth semester, I am mentally nauseated with the dorm life.
I am exhausted with trying to maintain peaceful simplicity with my hall mates.
I am tired of attempting to be a nice guy to students that won’t cooperate with mere regulations such as stereo volume.
I am tired of trying to get some sleep while a caffeine charged freshman is running around the halls, bumping into metal trash cans, and causing a commotion.
I am tired of having to go to wing meetings because someone couldn’t handle their liquor and vomited on the bathroom tiles.
I am tired of having to go to the library to do reading assignments because I cannot concentrate at my own desk.
I am sick of being a part of this group, and wish to get out of my housing contract for the spring of ’95 semester.
I aimed to find an apartment on Main St. to live in, but could not do so by your mid-November deadline. Maybe this deadline was an ample time limit, but I could not find an apartment until after the date.
Now, I have found a place to live with my own bedroom and friends as roommates. But I find myself stuck in 226 Beck Hall again.
The roommate that I had this semester, fall of ’94, was the only fellow that I could get along with. Sadly, though, he is dropping out, and I will be given a new roommate.
My parents pay for my housing, and are sick of hearing about this crap. If a little note from mommy is necessary, I will alert her to write one.
Indeed, I am mentally agitated. But I do not believe in attaining psychological help.
Therefore, I have no letter from a counselor describing how screwed up in the head I am. I believe in solving problems out on my own.
I know that this is all about money and upholding a stable balance. I am not aspiring to rip you or the system off by wanting to get out of the contract.
I know that there exists a list of dozens of students who are trying to get a dorm room.
If I can exit the dorms, students that want to live there can fulfill their desires. And out of my five semesters of living in the dorms, I have never seen a vacant bedroom.
So, I do not see how the Residence Life / Housing Administration will lose any money.
I am also aware of several men living in the third floor television lounge at Beck Hall. This occurred when I lived in Schuylkill Hall too. It seems to me that if I pack my stuff, and depart from the dorm, I would be giving these unfortunate fellows a place to live.
Am I wrong?
I am aware that I will not be able to get my $125 deposit back, but I do not care. I just want to get out of this hell hole.
Sincerely,
Syd Stone
The next day, Mr. Brown’s secretary called me and said I had to schedule an appointment with him. The only available slot was during one of my classes, but I took it anyway. On the day of the appointment, the secretary escorted me to his office. He was sitting in his leather swivel chair, reading my letter. “Hi, how’s it going, Syd?” he asked.
“Hey.”
“Here, have a seat.”
Mr. Brown was chewing on a small piece of gum and loving it, making juicy noises as he read the letter. He took a deep breath and started telling me the policies. From the tone of his voice, it was bleak.
Basically, in order to get out of my housing contract, my parents had to die or get a divorce. The only other way was a medical excuse that was documented and signed by a doctor.
“Alright. Thanks a lot, Mr. Brown. I think I know what I have to do.”
“OK, Syd. Nice meeting you. Will I be hearing from you again?” he asked.
“Yeah, hopefully.” I walked off wondering what the hell I would do. Then it hit me. In the letter, I had said that I was quite crazy. When I got back to my room, I phoned the school Psychology Department and made an appointment with one of the doctors.
The next day, I entered the Psych Department with a morbid suicidal look on my face. The secretary made me fill out a form with a million questions about drugs, alcohol, parents, relationships, sex, and everything else that most people would rather keep secret. She asked me if it was an academic or personal concern.
“Personal,” I said.
I sat down in a cushiony chair and waited. There were pamphlets laying all over the place about how to get As and how to increase your self esteem.
The doctor, a motherly black woman in a red outfit, came out of a back office and greeted me. She led me to her office. I had marked on the form that I was having problems in my relationship and with my peers. The doctor started asking me questions with a gentle and sincere voice.
“Well, this is my first time to see a psychologist. I usually try to solve my problems out on my own. But I’ve come to point where I can’t do it.”
I started to tell her that my girlfriend just left me for another man. Of course, this did really happen in the beginning of the year, but Maddy and I weren’t having problems now.
“Everywhere I go, I see her with this guy. And he lives right down the hall too, in my hallway.”
Then, I started rambling about how I couldn’t get along with my hall mates. The truth was, I got along great with them. What I was telling her were the problems that I had and solved on my own during the previous semester.
“…So, I tried to get out of my housing contract. But it was too late.”
Then the doctor turned into an irritable groaning beast and uttered, “So, you came here.”
“Yeah, sorry to bother you with this.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. I just wish those policies would change at the housing department. They bring so many students in here.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But you’re different. You want to get out of the dorms. Most of the students I get still want to stay on campus somewhere. Are you sure you want to leave?”
“I think it would be the best thing to do.”
“OK, I’ll be right back.” She came back with some forms. I signed them in a few different spots, and I was out of the contract. I walked out feeling a hundred pounds lighter. I skipped through the crisp icy air like a jovial boy headed to the playground.
“Hey, freak!!” screamed a deep satirical voice that could only be Clay’s. He was in a good mood also, and strutted towards me with his knapsack of poetry and books strung around his shoulder. “What’s goin’ on, my man?!” he asked while sticking out his hand. I shook it.
“I’m outta this campus, man. I just got out of my housing contract.”
“How the hell did you do that?”
“I had to visit a doctor and give this bullshit story about how I was going crazy.”
“Cool, man.”
“Well, I’m off to drink a few beers. Murray bought some of that cheap shit last night. Two bucks for a six-pack.”
In my room, I danced around and sipped away while Murray was typing out his last paper of the semester on my Brother word processor.
“C’mon. Be quiet, Syd! I’m almost done. C’mon, stop fucking around!”
I began packing through the clattering sound of the word processor, a thick chain sound of storied victories to come.