When I found out Patrick F. Taylor Hall flooded I, allegedly, jumped for joy. My jubilant heart thumped away in my chest. As cruel and inhumane as it may be, I, like most other humanities and social science majors, have a slight beef with engineers.

They get told they’re a necessity, that we need engineers and that they’re so super, uber cool and deserve super, uber high pay. And sure, I guess we need them. Maybe. 

But as someone who’s been told that my career of choice is for those who can’t do, can you blame me for being a touch tickled at this seemingly karmic reckoning?

I mean, it’s just ironic that the engineering building flooded. You know, the one built by engineers for engineers. 

But I was busy,  so I had to go about my day. On the Thursday following the flood, I could tell something was seriously wrong. I was sweaty, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking and my visage was overcome with a cloudy complexion. 

At first, I thought I was coming down with a deadly illness, that the end was nigh. But because I am nothing if not impressive, I persisted. I lived through the day in a haze, my movements slow and weak. I had a thirst that couldn’t be quenched, my throat dry, my blood boiling.

But then I had a moment of clarity; I needed caffeine. I needed my free sip of charged divinity from Panera. I don’t know how I missed it, but I had only had three charged lemonades the day previous (I usually have six).

It was all so clear to me; I just had to get to Panera. I had to get home. 

I embarked on my dangerous journey, narrowly avoiding automobiles and sinkholes. My legs quivered, and I’m certain I passed out several times on my mission. By the time I arrived at PFT my entire world had narrowed down to a pinprick of light. 

And then the light went dark, Panera Bread at PFT was, and still is, closed.

I collapsed to the ground and let loose a howl of pure agony that may have killed three bystanders and at least 10 squirrels. It was at that moment I knew my world was over. How am I supposed to function without my charged lemonade? 

I know I’m not alone in my tragedy, that my suffering has to be shared across the student body. President William F. Tate IV, hear my plea and understand the gravity of this situation. You must fully restore PFT no matter the extent of the destruction. Give the engineers back their building, but more importantly, give me back my home.

I can only guess at what hellish divinity heard my contempt for the engineers and their temple to greed and decided to cause the destruction of the HVAC machine that flooded their college. But I know one thing is for certain; I would do anything to make it unhear me. 

I promise to change my ways and send love to the engineers if only it means all this could be undone.

I write this while drawing what I assume is my last breath. My heart is heavy, cold, weak, uncaffeinated. My only hope is that my DoorDash driver arrives with my six charged lemonades in time.

Garrett McEntee is an 18-year-old English freshman from Benton.