You’re running late, already stuck in traffic on the way up to campus, and then you finally pass the threshold of driving up Gaglardi Way to find a spot at Central parking. Lo and behold, you are eternally bound to join the seemingly endless carousel of cars waiting to find empty spots, like undead souls floating down the River Styx, longing for redemption.
All for naught, all in vain, as every spot is filled. And if you think you found a spot, think again — it’s really just an electric car that’s the size of a small hippo, giving you the faintest illusion of hope only to vanquish your faith with swift malice. You circle around for half an hour to every parking lot like someone stuck in a desert trying to find an oasis to no avail. Your class started an hour ago, you’ve wasted half your tank just driving around the lots, and you start to question if it’s even worth it at this point.
For a place that considers itself a commuter school, as a commuter, I feel unwelcome. Don’t get me started on the permits. Why in god’s name am I paying up to $420 for a chance at parking that’s not guaranteed? And if, by some holy intervention where the planets align, I get a spot, I am then forced to pay almost $20 for a day pass or else I’ll get ticketed. What more do you want from me?! More money? My car? My soul?!
