dear watterson towers,
i elected to spend this friday night with you after a day of upset stomach and found you to be an excellent companion. i especially enjoyed the soft sounds of closet light pullstrings that echoed through the pipes into my room. the view out of my seventh story window is wonderful, and i'm sure that next semester when i live in clay house, almost 250 feet tall on my tip toes, i will be consistently amazed by the sheer height above dreary bloomington-normal snow days that you will give to me. my only complaint is the thud of inconsiderate bass turned up by the other tenants. i think they must not see the value of a quiet friday night spent alone with you, but don't worry watterson towers, south tower, room 201 monroe, i do, and i always will. some people say that you killed your mother, but i don't believe them. to me, you are a shining beacon of light and hope, watterson towers. you are a piece of french bread. you are olive oil. not once this semester have i ever had trouble finding my way home. every night you are there to lead me slowly by the hand through the midwest night punctuated by guffawing fratboy yells and stumbling drunk children. i love your beanpole awkward long legs and small head. i love your dirty floors made slippery by selfish students. i love your stinky restrooms and slow elevators that heave through the day. most of all i love you, watterson towers.