As a junior, I think I’ve gone to school at UR long enough to have complaints that deserve an airing on a public forum. Why, you might ask? So that the other residents who think the washing machines in Wilder smell like weed know they’re not alone or crazy. And, in hopes that someday these things will be fixed by the powers that be. At the very least, the person who accidentally washed their stash will realize that the Wilder community noticed — and so did my mom who thought I was hotboxing my room. Not that I knew what she was talking about, of course, because I don’t know what weed smells like.

I’ll start with something we all think but won’t say: Rettner is not a good place for juggling, social events, group studying, or people who drag their feet. Every fallen juggling pin and loud footstep up the staircase reverberates through the building and my soul. If you disagree, you probably drag your feet and feel called out right now. It’s also hard to accept that the whole building heard you talk shit about your senior design group outside the Fabrication Studio. We don’t blame you, though, we wouldn’t want to drive over a bridge Brad engineered either. Now let’s all agree that Rettner is a quiet study space, too. Next time you venture through Rettner, accept that every noise you make is amplified and act accordingly.

Study space aside, I think the pizza served in the Pit needs to be addressed. I really believe that it’s hard to mess up pizza because it’s a winning combination. Even the cheapest frozen pizzas from the grocery store are good, which makes it even more disturbing that the Pit pizza can be so bad. This is not a condemnation of the workers who prepare the pizza. They’re doing the best they can given the fact that the most important ingredient they have to work with (the cheese) is so overwhelmingly subpar. It’s a thick and waxy blanket of broken promises that insults the crust it sits upon. We, the students of UR, deserve better pizza cheese. We know where to get it: Douglass or Danforth. Why can’t the pizza from the Pit be the same pizza that’s served at the dining halls? That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Dining Services, please, tell us.

While we’re asking questions, why are more students admitted every year? There’s not enough housing on this campus, and yet class sizes have increased for years. But of course those students are just the smartest and “quirkiest” Admissions ever saw so they couldn’t be turned away. I think I speak for many when I say that there’s a marked difference in campus density each year. You can always get food at the dining hall, but you need to be prepared to spend two hours there just navigating lines. You can go to the gym, but be prepared to hold hands while you do abs with the person on the mat next to you. You can study during finals in a place like PRR, if you wake up at 6 a.m. to get there first and promise your firstborn child to the smarter kids in your stats class.

I don’t think it’s necessary for me to go deep into parking. We all know it‘s awful and overpriced, including the alumni who don’t want to donate their money to our school after trying and failing to find a reasonable parking spot for Meliora Weekend. I offer only a solution: build a multistory parking garage in Library Lot that’s topped with a garden. Everyone wins. There’s more parking, and the campus doesn’t become less attractive, especially if the garage is only a few stories. We can also have campus groups paint murals on the side that faces Gleason so the view is maintained. If this ever comes to fruition, I’m going to cite the article on my resume, just so we’re clear.

Before I wrap up this up, I’ll outline a few things that didn’t inspire me enough to elaborate. Primarily, the prices at Hillside. And don’t give any of the classic excuses, Dining Services, a pack of Oreos isn’t worth $6 anywhere. Anywhere. Not even at the 7/11 on Elmwood. Finally, we’re a Pepsi campus — fuck that.

Anyways, uh, that’s all I got. I don’t know how you end an article that admits to being a series of complaints positively.


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