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Cattywampus. This key is the last word I will utter tonight. I step into my H.O.C.’s dining room, a table full of cheese and cookies to my left, and a decision to my right. Do I sit at the table, for convenience? Or in the living room, where I can tower over Dr. D from the couch as he lounges on the floor? I choose convenience—there is always next week. The table also means my cheese is safe from Josie. Even still, her tail thumps intermittently on my leg as she makes her rounds under the table. I read, I write, I dunk this week’s cookie of choice in my hours-old dining hall coffee. When the clock strikes eleven, we file out into the night, still hesitant to speak. I carry a plate of cookies for my suitemates who did not come. The next week, when sign-ups arrive, I promptly message them: “SSB.” This becomes our chant on Monday as we venture to Leitner House once again: SSB, SSB, SSB! 

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