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The Emptiness Inside of Me Can Only Be Filled by Lukewarm Leftovers in the D-Hall

Leftover Noch's, how my heart soars at the sight of thee.

By Jane H. Culbertson

It is an unfortunate but inevitable fact of life that everything you care about will eventually leave you. Love fades, friends grow apart, and life itself is only temporary. However, there is but one silver lining, one constant in this messy, terrifying, and cruel world: clubs will always order too much food for their meetings and leave lukewarm leftovers in the d-hall.
 
Seeing those nondescript pans of food, just sitting there like abandoned children at a firehouse, fills me with a joy that can be described as nothing less than pure ecstasy. As I wolf down a second dinner, paid for by a club of which I'm not a member, I realize that the Pad Thai may be cold, but, for a brief moment, my heart is warm.

I’ve never considered myself a religious person. But there’s something about soggy Felipe’s nachos that rekindles the fire within my soul that had been long extinguished. In this sense, I read the emails announcing leftover food not as messages from a fellow student, but as the divine word of God Himself. I greet these holy communications with deference and bliss. I am a believer, and Katherine from Harvard Model Congress is my prophet.

At first glance, one may assume that no amount of food can properly combat the unbearable weight of sadness that consumes me on a daily basis. Most days, I am drifting in a sea of nothingness without a lifeboat in sight. But the human condition is one of constant flux. And Chipotle is pretty damn good, even if it's a bit tepid.

 

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