The AFC Horror Story

After a long day of classes, I was mentally exhausted, slightly confused, and still wondering why Newcomb had served catfish for the third time this week. Nonetheless, I decided to head to the Aquatic and Fitness Center (“AFC”) for a much-needed evening workout.

It was 5 p.m., and with an orange-flavored Celsius in hand, I was ready to assert my dominance over the weights. As I approached the building, my spirits rose with every step. I turned on my reggaeton playlist, allowing the sweet Caribbean rhythm of Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” to prepare me for what I believed would be the greatest pump of my life. I was already fantasizing about my post-workout Twisted Tortilla. Life was good.

Upon entering the AFC, I glanced to my left and witnessed a group of students playing what could only loosely be described as basketball. Unconcerned, I approached the front desk, scanned my student ID, and gave the employee a warm smile, accompanied by an innocent sparkle in my eye. He looked back at me with an expression of genuine concern, almost as if he were questioning my mental soundness. In hindsight, his concerns were quite justified.