So Wednesday night soon turned into Thursday morning as I struggled to finish up my notebook for Comm 345, and put together a video segment for my Comm 486 class. To top it off, I had just spent several hours at the paper, working to ensure that the Hobo feature I had written was properly published. Four extremely long readings, and one dropped CS class later, and our dear friend Mr. Sun was beginning to make his brief, yet daily appearance on the Ithaca horizion. The all-nighter was over, and the morning after had come.
So there I was, coasting through the day, making some insightful — yet mostly incoherent — comments in lecture, and slowly counting down the hours until I could go home and collapse into a ball on my bed. Nap time came soon enough, yet was too brief. I awoke at 6:30 p.m., to call down to the Daily Sun office and see if anyone had gotten hockey qoutes. This night would (hopefully not) be the last hockey pullout I would ever have to work on. (Hopefully not, beucase we'd do another one if the team went to the NCAA Frozen Four in Boston, and that'd be worth the lost sleep).
Owen, the new sports editor, picked up the phone. No one, to his knowledge had gotten qoutes. I hung up the phone, put pants on, and rushed to East Hill.
The ice was empty when I arrived, but the lights were still on in the hockey office. Breathless, I rushed in to find Sue, the hockey secretary, finishing up for the night. We chatted a while, and I took a sigh of relief since Alex — the former sports editor — had actually gone to practice before me. Sue and I chatted for a while, and then I went home to write up my senior editor proposal and head to the office.
I made it to the office around 9:30, after a meager lunch/dinner of four eggs (scrambled) and some chopped up sasuage. I then started writing one of my two articles for the night. Total, I'd have to produce 1800 words out of basically nothing. It was nerve wracking, but four hours, and 12 mini chocolate covered donuts later, I finished. Then Alex and I laid in the text, wrote some headlines, and headed home.
So now it's 3:30, and I check my e-mail and get into bed. Four a.m. rolls around, and cue our mysterious phone call:
me: Hello?
them: Did you just call 911?
me: No, we're all sleeping here.
them: are you sure?
me, nervously: uh, yeah...
them: well an officer will be by to check on you in a few minutes.
'Click'
So now I'm freaked out, and trying to figure out the best way to check on my apartmentmates. I decide just to knock and ask if they're okay, and three-minutes of confused conversation later, I find out they all are indeed just fine. Then the office shows up.
Now keep in mind, it's 4 a.m. I sleep in my underwear (little boy underpants, as Mr. Mcalvin has described them). There's now a stranger at the door, forcing me to put pants on. I'm not happy. Then he starts asking questions like, "why can't I speak with the other people who live here?" and "Why am I supposed to believe that just becuase you look like the guy on this id that you are the Matthew who lives at this address and who's name the phone is registered under?"
Luckily Brian, one of the guys I live with, was up going to the bathroom at this time, and was able to corroborate some of my facts. Then the officer left, and I went back to bed.
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Playoff hockey tonight, and it was amazing. The team scored five goals total, and had an incredible amount of energy in the first. There was also a great fight, but it's late so I'll describe it another time. Expect another confused story about a girl as well.
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