A personal account of the horrors of commuting on foot.
By: Charlotte Kohl
It’s really hard for me to get out of bed in the morning. Not because it’s freezing in the basement, my only pair of pants is dirty, and I’m out of honey puffs — it’s because I have to brave the jungle.
My Blundstones have seen better days, so I slip on my TOMS. But I should never have worn them. Fresh out of the box, right into a puddle the size of Lake Ontario.
Back splash. I can see the swamp from the street. It’s not even a path anymore. The only way to survive is to cling to the outer edge. I’m gonna get so good at walking the line.
My only pair of pants looks great with mud flecks.
I am super freaked out by the white trailer. Also night class is the worst. I guarantee you something lives in it. My most recent theory — zombies. It’s not impossible. Picture this: the dark forest, a silent field, then the trailer creaks open as zombies fall over each other scrambling to snack on you.
I’m scaring myself. At least I’m improving at that hundred-meter dash from the forest to the street.
Nothing compares to the bees. Who knew tiny bodies could pack such a powerful punch? Their buzzing echoes through the pumpkin patch. I’ve heard horror stories of the buggers getting caught in people’s hair. Not me. I always cover my head with a jacket and dash to the cover of the forest, head down, bees bouncing off my shield in every direction.
It’s a war zone out there.
My suggestion is as follows: buy a car, a bike, rollerblades, or any form of transportation better than your own two legs. Avoid the path at all costs. And if that’s not in the budget, move to the other side of campus and take the long way home.
Good luck, and see you on the other side.