Editor's note: this article is satire.
You’re on campus one Wednesday afternoon, and something feels off. There’s a rare energy in the air — Gucci perfume with hints of Lululemon — and low whispers of Greek letters seem to be echoing from all corners of the Quad. You’ve been camped out under a tree for hours trying to finish up an assignment, but suddenly, even in the September swelter, every hair on your arm is standing up straight. You feel uneasy and apprehensive.
And that’s when they start to run.
At first, you think it must be a coincidence. A small group of girls in athleisure happen to be running up the Quad at the same time. Maybe they’re all trying to catch the bus? Trying to make it to Granville’s Agora before it runs out of escargot?
But then the rest of the girls spill onto the path, sprinting in swarms, swarming in sprints — a monochrome blur of potential, newness and membership.
You only have time to duck your head and shield your laptop before they’re onto you, stomping on your thrifted vest and Doc Marten flats, trampling the wire headphones that are still quietly playing Beach House.
As another Golden Goose sneaker hits your groin, you think you finally understand what "Space Song" is really about.
That’s the last thing you remember before you black out.
Passed out as you are, small moments infiltrate the thick shell of your consciousness. A hand on your arm. Hushed whispers. The words “Bid Day.” Silence.
You open your eyes to a white room with white curtains and a white bed. The color scheme doesn’t look so different from the scene on the Quad, but here the shrieking is gone, replaced with the gentle hum of the patient monitor.