Wednesday, 10:30 p.m.
The inconsistent quality of Frisc coffee has led one of my tablemates to an extreme measure. Sitting next to his laptop is a personal French press.
Wednesday, 10:23 a.m.
Upon continued reflection of the Frisc bathroom debacle... why is there no bathroom in the lobby? Students often use the study spaces in the lobby as a time saver. Why waste part of an awkward half hour walking up and down the stairs when you can just plop down at one of the cute little white tables (which I thought were silver for the better part of last year)? The inherent problem: Obviously if you are in the lobby you are drinking coffee which, BIG SHOCK, creates a need for a bathroom. And then you have to waste all that time swiping in just so you can go wait on the line in the basement. If a building is going to place a bathroom anywhere, honestly, isn't the lobby the most common sense choice? Oh wait — this is the Frisc — common sense logic need not apply.
Tuesday, 10:43 p.m.
The Frisc bathroom situation has gotten so dire that I just took the elevator to the 6th floor so I could pee without waiting for A HALF HOUR.
This is unacceptable. Faunce has eight stalls in the basement bathroom and it is never crowded in that building. Could they not have diverted a few resources? Are they (the ambiguous they being the overlords of the Frisc) evil sadists who want us all to develop bladder infections?
Another submission from a friend of TFTF, sent at 8:56 p.m. on a Monday
A girl tries to look good when she leaves the house, but, heaven knows, it isn't always easy when she's a full-time college student and hasn't gotten eight uninterrupted hours of sleep in, oh, about two years. If that's the case, no matter what, she's going to need a little help.
So this is for you, Frisc bathroom. You're killing me here. You bolt a bare fluorescent tube on each side of the mirror, it's going to look like backstage in Guantánamo's dressing room. You're washing your hands after your fifth mugful of totally necessary coffee sends you hurtling in there to empty your bladder. You stand there, rubbing that translucent pink industrial soap on your hands, and you DIE. Every pore, every imperfection, all of the sorry streaks of redness veining your eyes from exhaustion and caffeine: it's all there for you, marvelous and loathsome.
At the same time, that inhuman light somehow perfectly captures the depressing, cold grossness of the pools of water stagnating around the sink, not to mention each sorry wad of paper towel or toilet paper littering the floor. You were wrong, Jean-Paul. Hell isn't other people. It's this mirror.
This is not what I need, Frisc. I expect better. Make a girl feel proud to be up at 3 a.m. on a Thursday, staring at the blank Microsoft Word page where her French paper ought to be.
So this is for you, Frisc bathroom. You're killing me here. You bolt a bare fluorescent tube on each side of the mirror, it's going to look like backstage in Guantánamo's dressing room. You're washing your hands after your fifth mugful of totally necessary coffee sends you hurtling in there to empty your bladder. You stand there, rubbing that translucent pink industrial soap on your hands, and you DIE. Every pore, every imperfection, all of the sorry streaks of redness veining your eyes from exhaustion and caffeine: it's all there for you, marvelous and loathsome.
At the same time, that inhuman light somehow perfectly captures the depressing, cold grossness of the pools of water stagnating around the sink, not to mention each sorry wad of paper towel or toilet paper littering the floor. You were wrong, Jean-Paul. Hell isn't other people. It's this mirror.
This is not what I need, Frisc. I expect better. Make a girl feel proud to be up at 3 a.m. on a Thursday, staring at the blank Microsoft Word page where her French paper ought to be.
Sunday, 1:58 p.m.
Lunch: A tactical error
At certain instances, Ratty and Frisc behavior interact, creating a situation with more variables than the average studier may have accounted for. In an attempt to avoid the brunch rush, the typical student might go to the Ratty at 1 p.m.. The lines are slightly shorter and there are tables available because the I-just-woke-up rush is exiting. But to where are they exiting? More often than not, the Frisc.
So the stealthy 1 p.m. brunch eater returns to the Frisc only to discover that the seat so valiantly claimed at 10 a.m. has vanished. Between 12:30 and 1:30 p.m. on a Sunday morning, the Frisc population increases exponentially, leaving the early riser without a place to return to.
Sunday, 10:34 a.m.
It's exciting when there are about fifteen people in the entire basement... and you recognize easily half of them. Don't I feel super cool this morning!
A submission from a friend of TFTF, sent at 3:08 a.m. on Monday:
Someone explosively vomited ALL over the one stall in the men's room in the Frisc. I literally did not know it was possible to vomit in this messy a manner. It appears that they entered the bathroom and began projectile vomiting before they could enter the stall, because it is all over the outer side of the door. They then continued spewing all over the floor and corner where the toilet is. Finally, they managed to contain the last part in the toilet, but I imagine it was difficult because they had to step over/through their own vomit to reach the toilet. As a farewell, they neglected to flush the toilet.
It was one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen.
