Bye, losers

There’s a bench on the north side of campus, covered in graffiti and constantly surrounded by empty liquor bottles, cigarette butts and the occasional pair of underwear. It’s hidden, tucked away in a patch of trees on a detour path you’ve probably only ever taken if you don’t fear murder — or if you work for The Daily Californian, in which case you fear nothing, because you feel nothing.
Read More…