EDITOR’S NOTE: WILL BENNETT, STAFF WRITER FROM 2009-2011, CONTACTED THE MYCENAEAN WITH THE FOLLOWING WARNING. OUT OF LOYALTY TO HIM AND TO REWARD HIS READERS, WE DECIDED TO POST HIS ARTICLE. WE HOPE YOU ENJOY HEARING YET ANOTHER FIRST PERSON NARRATIVE ABOUT MR. WILL BENNETT, A “REALLY BIG GROWN UP.”
This is a wake-up call for all the high school seniors twiddling their thumbs anticipating the Promised Land known as college. The truth is the Promised Land is more of a nightmare.
My life at North Carolina State University started off exactly as I’d intended: sipping on top-shelf dining hall juices and returning to my dormitory around 9 PM every night as to not violate the lenient curfew set by my mother whilst still in grade school.
That was where everything took a turn for the worse.
One day while I was walking home from Bowling 101, the sky turned blacker than the heart of my former editor; hail and thunder poured down from the Heavens.
Eagerly, I sprinted into my dorm for refuge. To my disgust, frogs, locusts and flies covered all sixty inches of my room.
In retrospect, this was a clear warning sign I needed to drop out immediately. However, being young, attractive, muscular, and naïve, I decided to persevere, filing a work order to remove the pests.
In 7-10 business days, I was sure all of my problems would be resolved. Never in my life have I been more wrong.
The following day, I was taking my usual stroll through the Brickyard, hollering at honeys and daydreaming about the countless collection of currency that would one day fill my pockets.
In fact, I was so enamored with the idea that I decided to count how many hundred-dollar-bills rested in my wallet at that exact moment.
To my dismay, I realized that both my pockets were empty.
Not only did my wallet contain gratuitous amounts of cash, it was also home to my student ID, which functions as a room-key and meal-plan card. Without my wallet, I was destitute, homeless, and hungry.
Wondering aimlessly for a while, adrift amongst the bricks of NCSU’s campus, I decided it was time to try my luck with America’s favorite pastime: panhandling.
Hastily, I began constructing a sign with a Sharpie and piece of cardboard I fortunately left in my jacket-pocket earlier.
On my sign I courteously explained that I needed money for food; after all it’d been approximately two hours since I’d enjoyed a meal.
I stood on the redesigned, antiseptic Hillsborough Street. As one car rolled to a stop next to me, I approached the driver to kindly beg her for change.
“I know better; you’re just going to use it for liquor and drugs!” she said, shouting.
I frowned, slightly dismayed, but I knew human-kindness would overcome in the long run.
Around that time, I saw Andrew Wendt, who promptly donated three cents to my cause.
“I feel like [the donation] accurately portrays my attitude. I’m really stingy and a generally horrible person,” he said.
I would love to inform my readers that this story has a happy ending, but I would be lying.
In total, I accumulated eight cents, which couldn’t even purchase me a Happy Meal at McDonalds. I’m beginning to see my ribs sticking out, and sometimes I don’t even have the strength to walk to class.
To all the high school seniors looking forward to college, I have one word: