I might’nt e’er forget the events that transpired on that Godforsaken Orange Chicken Wednesday for as long as Orion’s belt should remain fastened. Before sophomore year, I’d been a mere fawn, far too weak, too feeble-minded; I daredn’t embark on a journey that had vanquished so many before me in the quest to pass through the Terrace burrito line. But now, 2 full blood moons after first arriving to Cornell, I was ready to conquer the trials that for so long had kept me from tasting those tortilla-covered morsels of orange fowl.
The longest line by far, measuring a full twelve goat lengths, was the foreboding burrito line. Mother hadn’t raised an ordinary farmhand, so I steadied myself and and took my place at the back to wait.
By the time I rounded the first corner, my morale was woefully low. Already the weakest of my fellow countrymen had begun to abandon their posts when a sprightly gnome approached me with a mysterious paper scroll to fill out. My first task! I was ready to do whatever it took to collect my warm bundle of orange-chickened opulence.
However, after taking yet another turn on the never-ending road, I felt myself grow dizzy with yearning, almost like that summer when Father was overcome with the plague. My quest had grown more difficult. Thirst sieged upon my senses, and in my delirium I reached for a plastic fork to cut off my arm, which had become just another worthless trifle in this cruel, mortal world.
O, Blessed day! By the hand of Providence I am at the end of my journey. Beans, yes. Rice, oh heavens. No cheese, please. Hark! I was finally able to see what the fruits of my labor hath procured: some soggy chicken nuggets wrapped with wilting lettuce and frozen guacamole. Alas, it was not the promised land I has imagined. But I shan’t fret. I guess I’ll ride my trusty steed all the way to Trillium.
