Someone kept a snake. You didn’t ask questions.
SOMEONE KEPT A SNAKE. YOU DIDN’T ASK QUESTIONS.
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It’s a peculiar kind of understanding, isn’t it? That unspoken pact forged in shared hallways, late-night study sessions, and the occasional, truly baffling discovery. Like the anaconda-sized python rumored to reside in a certain south-facing single. Or a boa? Details blurred, but the core truth remained: someone, somewhere, had a non-traditional pet, and we collectively just… didn't inquire.
This wasn't apathy. This was the unwritten curriculum of dorm life, a lesson in selective observation. You learned to navigate the ecosystem: the nocturnal writers fueled by questionable coffee, the aspiring entrepreneurs staging impromptu pitch meetings, and yes, the occasional, inexplicable presence of a living creature that decidedly did not belong. Rodents were a given; something exotic was a rite of passage.
The pressure of academic rigor, the intellectual sparring, the constant striving – it all created a unique pressure cooker where minor eccentricities became part of the fabric. Your roommate’s collection of antique surgical tools? Fine. The odd smell from down the hall? Probably just another experimental ramen recipe. A snake? Well, it certainly made for a better story than another all-nighter in the library.
These were the silent agreements, the quirky bonds that transcended majors and social circles. They were the background hum to our formative years, the bizarre undercurrent that made those hallowed halls feel truly alive. What hidden wonders did your hall hold?