Get your own

After enduring unimaginable horrors these past two years here at NIU, I can endure no more, and must demand segregation’s return! People are very different and this should and must—for personal self-preservation—be reflected in daily life. In the past, I had begrudgingly accepted the absurd idea that people are equal, but reality prevails, no matter what we would like to believe. The truth is clear: Bulimics need to have their own bathrooms, preferably out and away from the restrooms for the non-worshipers of the Angry Porcelain God. All of us have our own psychological baggage and should be offered sanctuary somewhere, but when the physical realities challenge even the most tolerant, change becomes essential in preventing complete societal chaos.

Between the residual—not to mention long-lasting—effects of someone else’s laxative abuse and vomit, the sickening combination of bile and Binaca Blast, Aquanet (to replaster those bangs that came unglued while retching in the stall) and obsession, every trip to the women’s john becomes a death march, a torturous struggle to continue breathing, an unmitigated Hell known to no man. Even the most fermented, urinous heinousity of a men’s locker room pales in comparison to the evil remains of the digestive fury of the bulimic female, even the most concentrated and noxious fumes of 10 beer-farting men in a single’s dorm room cannot compare to the frightening consequences of activities whose odor could feel a buffalo at 90 feet.

And so I say, I beg, I plead, rise up and embrace your sisters in their time of need, but if it’s THAT kind of need, send them to the gas station. One that you would never go to.

Jenny Jones