The ‘senioritis’ plague
Illustration by Killian Goodale-Porter.
Dylan Hostetter, Opinions and Humor Editor
As soon as I opened my eyes I could tell that something was off. We were a week out from fall break, a time usually meant for celebration. Everyone on campus looks forward to fall break not only because we have no classes, but because it is the one time a year when everyone is allowed to eat sweet potatoes.
But this time there was no celebration, there was silence. I looked out the window of my bedroom to see empty streets. Well, the streets were mostly empty — a couple of runners whose knees exploded halfway through the recent half marathon were still crawling their way across Monroe Park.
I was already running a bit late for my class that morning, so I grabbed my coat and my backpack and headed out the door. Once on the street, I began to smell a strange odor. Richmond isn’t new to strange stenches by any means, but this one was different. It was like someone had mixed body odor with a zero-sugar Monster energy drink.
As I approached campus, the smell became stronger and stronger until I saw it — the crowd of zombified students lurking around the Compass. I had heard of “senioritis” before, but this was something different, something worse. A plague of end-of-semester laziness had swept across the campus. It looked as if the entire campus was skipping their classes.
It was common to see a student or two donning pajama pants in the middle of the day, but now it seemed like their uniform. A sea of fleece plaid bottoms and VCU-branded sweatshirts created a barricade in front of the library. It was only slightly more terrifying than those TikToks of Mormon families who dress all 12 of their kids in the same pajamas.
Their appearance was not the only thing affected by the “senioritis,” but their hygiene too. I finally understood where the smell came from as I looked upon their matted hair and drool-stained chins. Everyone looked like a misbehaving three-year-old who had fallen asleep halfway through their time-out.
One of the zombified students finally caught sight of me, and the next thing I knew I was being chased down Franklin Street by the foul-smelling mob. I knew they weren’t real zombies, but I still didn’t want to see what would happen if they caught me.
I ran back to my apartment and grabbed my hazmat suit — a holdover from my COVID-19 days. I’ve always been a prepper for these types of things. Back in 2020, I hand-washed all of my groceries, even the cereal boxes. They completely dissolved in the water and left my sink full of Cheerios, but at least I knew I was free from disease.
Back at the Compass, dressed in my hazmat suit, I struggled to think of a plan to cure these students of their “senioritis.” Clearly they weren’t afraid of looking bad, smelling bad or getting poor grades — what could faze them?
Suddenly, I heard the faint sound of a helicopter and then, grappling down a rope into the center of the crowd, I saw VCU President Michael Rao. He was wearing a red bandana around his forehead and a pair of baggy camouflage pants, like an academic Rambo.
As soon as his boots touched the ground, I noticed a large stack of papers in his hand.
“This is a coupon for a free large pizza for anyone who agrees to go back to class right now,” Rao announced.
He spent the next hour handing out coupons to every student on campus who, begrudgingly, agreed to return to their classes. As it turns out, the only thing stronger than laziness is a lust for free food.
Editor’s Note: The characters and events depicted in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
