I attend class in O’Kelley Hall at 8 a.m. every Monday, Wednesday, Friday — at least I’m scheduled to.

So most M/W/F I haul my dreary-eyed and irritable self out of bed, throw on the nearest article of clothing that doesn’t smell like my cat’s been wearing it for the last week, tousle my hair in an attempt to make it look “purposefully chaotic” and trounce out the door.

Actually I sprint out the door like a (what’s a really slow, kind of chubby animal …) Walrus on crack, and try to make my way speedily on the long-cross campus trek. I leave at 10 minutes to 8 a.m., and maybe I should give myself more time; but, let’s be real, I’m not going to wake up earlier just to save myself some hassle on my commute.

After finally making it too O’Kelley, generally with a bagel or — more likely —  a poptart in hand, I am faced with the real task: Climbing up those gosh darn steps.

For some sick, twisted reason the climb to the third floor of O’Kelley versus climbing to my third floor apartment is the difference between climbing Everest and the Grand Forks river dyke. I don’t think the most fit olympian could make it to the top of those steps without breaking a sweat, and by the time I collapse on the third floor landing at 7:59 a.m. most mornings, it’s pretty clear I can’t either.

Dripping with perspiration, I drop my body noisily into one of O’Kelley 334’s questionable, squeaky lecture chairs. I’m halfway to gone. Sitting for the following hour without air conditioning —  or, in fact, air circulation —  next to about 100 other kids who are also sweaty and waiting till they get home after class for their morning shower is about enough to knock a person down dead at the thought of it.

Why you gotta be like that, O’Kelley?