Just starting my third year of college, I am amazed at the things I’ve already been taught at UR that I didn’t expect to be part of my education. I’m talking about the school rules and regulations that address all the little things in life.

Case in point: I never knew just how dangerous octopus lamps are. Or how wireless routers, no doubt about them, can single- handedly take down an entire ResNet Network.

And while I may not agree with all of these rules (or any of them), I can at least respect UR for the fact that they punish students who break these rules in an attempt to promote student safety and growing knowledge of the dangers in the world around us.

But now that I have moved off campus (and am sitting high with my lovely lamps, 100 percent poster penetration and a wireless router), I have come to find that I am at a loss as to why UR doesn’t work just as hard to prevent and enforce other problems, nay, nuisances, that plague college on-campus living.

We all know the evil of which I speak. It often wakes you up with a blaring roar at the least opportune moment. Maybe you are in the shower naked. Maybe your girlfriend finally decided she was in the mood. Or maybe you just got past that last tricky level in Mario.

And then it comes, like drums in the deep. The bellowing roar of the fire alarm. But this time, the culprit is not the physical embodiment of Mars himself, but a fellow student.

And most likely that student was doing something as simple as attempting to toast some bread or make macaroni and cheese.

That’s right. I’m saying it. UR students are severely deficient in the gene that allows people to not be dumb asses. And by that I mean, nobody knows how to cook.

But what is UR doing about this? Nothing, I say. If a student was found with an upward facing lamp, he would be punished. If she did anything else to set off the fire alarm, she would be thrown in a fiery prison (exaggeration, of course). And if the person was caught drunk off of their ass mumbling in a corner about a lost loved one, they would probably be given some alcohol pamphlets about drinking too much. Or, for repeat offenders, alcoholic rehabilitation.

And we all know that routers single handedly destroy the fabric of society and kill rainbows and unicorns, so we don’t even have to go there.

But where are the retributions for the toast-burners? Where are our remedial cooking classes? In fact, there are no home economics or cooking classes at all here, which rules out any possibility that those of us who know how to cook (myself) will be able to further our skills in hopes of being on “Iron Chef.” At the same time this keeps UR from teaching those idiots who can’t boil water how to boil some fucking water.

What am I proposing? If you set the fire alarm off because you can’t cook, UR should mandate that you take some kind of remedial effort in cooking. This way, UR is not only preparing us academically for the future, but it is also preparing us for a future of happy homemaking.

I mean, what good are 4,500 educated graduates going to be if they get out into the real world and starve because they don’t know how to boil an egg or how to cook Easy Mac (come on people, how do you burn Easy Mac, really? Really?)

That’s right. About as good and useful as a wet mop.

So while my words may fall on empty stomachs, I at least beg you, my fellow students, to put some time into learning how to fend for yourself.

The dining hall is only one option, and those places in the middle of your floors with ovens do actually work.

At the very least, when you do decide to move off campus or graduate, you’ll realize I was right. Or you’ll burn your house down trying to boil water. Your choice.

Clark is a member of the class of 2012

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