By: Hannah Davis

How do you make a smoothie? Do you a) blend your smoothie before you eat it, or do you b) just eat all the frozen ingredients one at a time?

This question can be very revealing of a person’s personality. If they answer “a,” you can glean a small amount of information about the person, albeit mostly about their eating habits. But suppose a person answers “b”. . . this is where things get a little more spicy. You can be SURE that you’ll be in for a wild ride with that individual. They likely live fearlessly — they don’t look both ways before crossing the street, they drive a dirt bike, or they steal stop signs. It’s pretty hardcore to eat all that frozen fruit by itself. But . . . alternatively, maybe this individual is one of those really busy people who just has “NO TIME” for anything. Maybe they are always stressed out and high strung, and that is why they do not take the time to blend their smoothies. Or, maybe the person does not know how to use a blender. In that case, do you want to be with a person who cannot use a simple kitchen appliance? Maybe this question isn’t actually very revealing of a person. Now that I think about it, it may just pose more questions than it answers.

Do you pee in the shower?

This is a question to weed out all the liars. If they answer “yes,” you’re in the clear — this person is honest (at least about one thing). If they answer “no,” watch the HECK out . . . can you really trust this person?

Do you sleep on your bed or under your bed?

I think the reason to ask this question is pretty obvious. Imagine sleeping over at someone’s house for the first time, and when it’s time to go to sleep they just crawl under the bed . . . like some sort of troll creature??? On the other hand, this can help the incredibly small percentage people who sleep under their beds find each other and fall in love, because let’s be honest, any two people who sleep under their beds are destined to be together 4ever and have weird but cute little under-bed sleepovers for the rest of their lives.

If you like hiking, what do you prefer? Do you like to a) hike or  b) HIKE!!!!!!!!!!!

I see this as a way to help differentiate between the people who like to hike, aka take low-key and non-strenuous walks through the forest — and those who like to HIKE, with a bold capital “H.” You know the ones . . . those people who have the inner motivation to go to a mountain and embark on perilous 30 km treks. This is definitely relevant in Vancouver, since outdoors-y culture is so popular that it’s a common occurrence to stumble upon online dating profiles that only consist of: Hiking! *tree emoji*. OkCupid should implement a supplementary questionnaire, to be filled out by anyone who says that they like to hike. Some questions can include: do you REALLY like to hike? How often do you hike? Is your main purpose of hiking to take pics for the ‘gram? (Don’t worry, no shame in this). What sort of shoes do you wear when you go hiking? While on the surface two people may seem to have one base hobby in common, their ideas of the same activity may vary significantly — and it would be nice to be given a little extra context so I don’t end up scaling a damn mountain on my first date.

By: Zoe Vedova

Fluorescent lights quiver above me.

I scramble into the Maggie Benston Centre, shaken, heartbeat slamming against my ribcage like a snare drum caught in my chest. Tripping as I throw myself down the staircase — I’m too terrified to look back . . . but too human not to.

Nothing.

The sliding doors hold off the dark barrage of nighttime. In my gut I know I just barely escaped something . . . even if I’m alone here now. Adrenaline still snaps at my nerves as I walk up to the bookstore — a safe place to spend the night. I squeeze into the store through the gap between the metal rolling gate and the wall. I decide it’s good luck someone forgot to lock it properly, and nothing else.

There’s a bin of on-sale shirts nearby — the ones that endure an eternally reduced price for looking like they were designed for a knockoff SFU. I bundle up for the night, shrugging on a few extra-large shirts to trap heat. I peer further into the dark store, looking for a place to take shelter. Vague shapes of bookshelves and display stands form in the darkness.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” a disembodied voice demands, accusing me of existing.

I let out a sharp scream. I whirl around to find not a person, but instead, what I can only describe as the ghost of Karl Marx — glowing faintly, and floating just above the cash registers. The Marx ghost looks to be formed from SFU fog, dissipating at the edges. His expression is incredulous.

“I got trapped in the Maggie Benston Centre,” I mumble, acutely aware I’m standing in the dark, red shirts falling to my knees. “Wh–what exactly are you doing here?”

Marx-ghost gives me a solid ‘kids these days’ look before waving a ghost arm, trailed in mist. Strange multicoloured club lights flash on while Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man,” performed by flutes, starts up over the speakers.

“I was nominated as the Patron Saint of SFU in 2009,” the ghost informs me. “Your institution has the highest number of liberal arts undergraduates citing me incorrectly in arguments every year. Additionally, there’s no place the oppressive bonds of capitalism hits the burdened hardest than this bookstore.” I nod like I’m trying to rake in participation points in a tutorial.  “Makes sense.”

Rows upon rows of hundred-dollar textbooks lie like catacombs on the bottom floor under me. Ghost-Marx continues as I — encouraged by the mid-western steadiness of the “Simple Man” melody — grab one of those heinously overpriced snacks (something like five ethically salted almonds for $6.75) and start munching as if this was a treat I’d picked up at Bulk Barn.

“For instance, did you know a fraction of every student’s tuition exists from the assumption everyone will eventually steal something from this place?”

An old memory of deciding to not purchase a fancy pen I wanted so bad because I assumed I’d find a pencil on the ground on the way to lecture stings me to the core.  The music swells and I get thrown off balance as if it was a real ocean wave. Club lights flash. Ghost-Marx’s voice raises above it all. “Aaron Burr lives on hidden in the lanyards! Bill Clinton vacations in the sportswear section! And at least one essay will focus on society’s transition to post-modernity —”

My eyes snap open. I sit up dumbly in my seat, wiping a line of drool from the corner of my mouth as my professor goes over the next midterm. In my clenched fist, I find the fanciest pen I’ve ever held.