Catching Fire for a Salad: TU/TD

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Jean Jackets – You might call me a hipster. I can live with that. You might call me a liberal. Fine by me. Who doesn’t know that already? I’m warm in my denim, and I feel impervious to your criticism.

“Miss Independent” – Won’t you come and spend a little time? An unreal song that is currently entirely underappreciated in terms of its lack of inclusion in the throwback music that people play at parties out of nostalgia. It should be added to the unspoken playlist that includes other legendary tracks like “Mr. Brightside” and “Stacy’s Mom.” Ne-Yo is deserving of far more recognition than he receives. Take a bow king.

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Dying of Heat For a Salad – You’ve just gotten out of class. Your destination predetermined in the group chat about an hour ago, you quickly descend the stairwell in Gasson, almost knocking over a gray-haired professor carrying a briefcase as you swiftly make your way down. Your professor decided to let your class out at 12:48, meaning you’ve got a two-minute head start on the rush to Eagle’s. You stride quickly across the academic quad, down the stairs, and glide by Stokes, content that your path is not impeded by the usual 12:51 havoc. You swing open the door to Mac and climb the stairs up to Eagle’s, the final push in what you hope will be a triumphant journey. Alas, you realize that everyone else in this school has decided to eat lunch at the same time as you, and despite your early start, the lines extend as far as the eye can see. You take your place in the back of the salad line, slowly waiting to order your “salad” dominated by popcorn chicken and asiago dressing. But as time progresses and you move closer to the counter, you start to realize the excruciating temperature in the room. It’s almost winter, and you’ve still got your sweater on. The heat in the counter area gets under your skin and causes you to sweat, your impatience amplified by the uncomfortable feeling. Slowly, it all becomes too much to handle, and you debate exiting the line and escaping the agonizing environment around you. Your eyes see fire, the containers of mozzarella, tomato, and cucumber replaced with fuming vats of lava. The fridges along the walls may as well be heat lamps, and your throat goes dry. Suddenly, a sandstorm sweeps through this desert, knocking you to your knees. The temperature intensifies, and you begin to spontaneously combust, burning up in flames as those in line around you look on, rather uninterested. A few take notice and post a video on their Snapchat stories of the bright flames engulfing you slowly. Then, you’re no more, a pile of ash on the floor of Eagle’s that someone will come by and sweep eventually, or that Duck Boots will kick to the side. You’ve fallen victim to the inferno, all for the sake of a salad, and you won’t be the last.

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