The squirrel that stole your sandwich.
THE SQUIRREL THAT STOLE YOUR SANDWICH.
Follow for more shared memories and campus reflections.
Remember that sun-drenched afternoon, perhaps on a bench or sprawling on the lawn, immersed in a textbook or a deep conversation? Then, a flash of grey, a blur of motion, and suddenly, your carefully crafted (or hastily assembled) lunch was gone. Not eaten, not even nibbled, but stolen. A brazen heist, executed by a furry, bushy-tailed bandit with an audacious glint in its eye. It probably scampered up the nearest oak, your sandwich clutched triumphantly, leaving you dumbfounded, amused, and perhaps a little hungry.
It’s one of those uniquely absurd campus moments, isn't it? Amidst the late-night study sessions, the intellectual debates, the relentless pursuit of excellence, there were these tiny, unexpected ruptures of pure, unadulterated whimsy. The squirrels, bold and seemingly sentient, were practically unofficial mascots, their antics a constant, humbling reminder that even in the most hallowed halls, nature finds a way to assert its delightful chaos. These weren't the moments you put on your resume, but they were the ones that grounded you, elicited genuine laughter, and stitched themselves into the fabric of your experience. It's not just the sandwich; it's the memory of that brief, ridiculous pause, a shared glance of disbelief with a fellow student, a silent acknowledgment that yes, this too, is life here.