I just returned to my room's hallway (let's be greedy and call it my hallway) to find tools and key cards strewn underfoot. Frank, the building manager, must be performing necessary repairs to the premisis. "Hi Frank, what it be like?"
Mr. Furter responded, as you would expect in the southern hemisphere, with a question: "I'm sorry, I always forget your name, what is it?"
You forget my name, Ron Reagan? I've even spoken to him before about this, and he has about 60 kids whose names he mostly remembers, yet he forgets mine?! No offense to the syllable infested students living here, with parents trying to outdo each others' ability to create a name that sounds like it best belongs in a special edition box of Crayola, but you can recall other names here, but not mine? Fucking figures.
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