The fire alarm goes off every other week.
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Remember that distinct, piercing wail? The one that could shatter the most intense study session or yank you from the deepest slumber? It wasn't just an alarm; it was a ritual. Whether it was the unmistakable scent of burnt popcorn from a floor-mate's late-night culinary experiment, a forgotten pot, or merely a drill disguised as an emergency, the fire alarm became an almost comforting constant.
You’d stumble out, half-asleep, into the frigid night or the pouring rain, often in mismatched pajamas, joining a growing throng of equally disheveled geniuses. There was that collective sigh, that knowing glance shared with hundreds of your peers, all silently acknowledging the absurdity of it all. Here we were, grappling with quantum physics or ancient philosophy just moments before, now standing on a freezing lawn, waiting for the all-clear.
These disruptions, as inconvenient as they were, forged a unique bond. They were the unplanned intermissions in our intense academic dramas, reminders that even in the hallowed halls of academia, basic human needs—and the occasional collective evacuation—still reigned supreme. It’s a quintessential part of the Ivy experience, isn't it? The late-night debates about global economics, the intense study groups, and then, without fail, the fire alarm, bringing everyone back to ground zero, quite literally. It’s part of the tapestry of memories, tucked right alongside those midnight intellectual breakthroughs and the scramble to finish papers. A chaotic, yet oddly unifying, soundtrack to our formative years.