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Julia Haworth

Julia Haworth has 2 articles published.

Restroom Review – Wagner Fourth Floor

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Photo credit: Julia Haworth

Stimson. Plain and docile by day. Dark and menacing at night. She was top dog, with a dining hall and large complex of resident houses to boot; Stimson Hall was Goucher’s former glory, now being forcefully put to rest.

Camera, notebook, and buddy in hand, we walked past the darkened dining hall and Hillel lounge, once central, lively hubs of Goucher’s campus, now an abandoned ghost town, yearning to be used again.

Getting into Stimson Hall itself was easy, but getting into the residence house was not nearly so easy thanks to the hate crime. After trying just about every door to every house, someone kindly let us into Wagner.

Even after exploring Stimson at the beginning of last semester, I still tentatively wandered through dimly lit, incredibly narrow staircases and a few unlit corridors. I felt thankful I brought someone with me to face Stimson’s quiet, menacing, institutionalized vibe. After all that wandering and jumping at every possible sound (next Halloween they should totally make shut-down Stimson a haunted house), I ended up on the fourth floor. I opened up the tall, slender bathroom door.

“Screw this,” my fragile, meek freshman self said as the door came to an abrupt close behind us. I think it has become apparent to you, the readers, that Stimson genuinely creeps me out, and her bathrooms were no exception. The dim lighting, yellowed atmosphere and weird, cramped layout left me shaking in my mortal skin. The mirror and sinks, though they were old and had weak water pressure (a consistent thing on this campus), were decently clean. The exception to that being what looked like a dining hall chocolate cupcake was left, completely obliterated in one of the sinks.

The darkened toilet stalls definitely made getting business done tough, but those who reside here had adapted to these dank circumstances, because they were also surprisingly clean. No jizz, and little-to-no pee doused the toilet seats; it was a content feeling to see basic hygiene being practiced.

I noted the yellowed cubby shelves I kind of wish the First Year Village bathrooms had. I moved to the dreadful, mysterious looking shower area. I pulled back the slightly damp, aged plastic shower curtain to reveal ancient tile and caved-in stand-up shower floors.

“This whole bathroom makes me feel like I’m in a mental institution,” my buddy said as they stepped in and inspected the odd-looking showers. Tuning out the transitioning rant about how they would rather not be institutionalized, I hesitantly turned towards the bathtub, expecting something much grosser than I found, as it was creepy but clean.

After surveying the whole bathroom, the corridor I had to walk back down to get back to Stimson’s main area became suddenly unlit. I gripped my poor buddy’s arm as we slowly made our way back to the staircase. I jumped into my buddy at every rattle, creak, groan, and door slam, but eventually began to breathe again when I made it back to the common area.

I would give the entire bathroom an 11/10 for being so creepy, and 5.5/10 for being cleanliness, which shouldn’t have surprised me because anyone who isn’t a freshman takes care of the living spaces they’ve been given. 🙂

Restroom Review – First Year Village

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Photo Credit: Julia Haworth

Hi! I’m Julia Haworth, a first-year Communications major. Last semester, Neassa Hunt began writing bathroom reviews, but she has since graduated, and so I’m taking up bathroom reviews this semester! Enjoy!

Ah. The First-Year Village. From the rotting food and unwashed dishes in the Fireside demo kitchen, to the broken-down pool table with the sketchy cues in the Trustees game room, it’s home sweet home! But it holds a dark, smelly secret: the dorm bathrooms.

All the First-Year dorm bathrooms have the same set-up: two to four showers on one side, two to four toilets on the other, and four sinks in the middle. I don’t even want to start on about the single-use gender neutral bathrooms, which is like Satan’s personal torture chamber for people with good hygiene.

Walking into the First-Year bathrooms is like a game of Russian roulette: you never know what you’re going to get when you pull back a shower curtain, open a stall door, go to wash your hands in the sink, or even what smell you get when you step in the door. You could get flowery soap, the crappy Axe that someone doused themselves in, or last night’s dinner sitting unflushed in some toilet.

Bringing in a whole bucket of cleaning supplies and Clorox wipes is essential to having a comfortable, sanitary toilet experience. Unfortunately, us students are either too broke to afford that, too lazy to think about it, or both. Opening up the stall doors to cautiously peer in is totally like that game show where you had to pick a door, and you got whatever was behind that door. “Behind door number one it’s spontaneous and sleazy, it’s a jizz covered toilet seat folks!” And the list goes on to pee soaked floors, unflushed toilets, etc. My ultimate quest in life has changed from ending global warming to finding a clean, dry toilet where I only have to put one layer of toilet paper over the seat.

The showers are another nightmare. It’s just like that classic horror movie scene, where the killer pulls back the shower curtain and there’s a screaming naked girl, but instead you’re the screaming naked girl pulling back the curtain, and whatever trap the devil set up for you is behind it: hairy shower drains, mysterious crusty substances on the walls, wet towels, gross chunky tile floors, and sometimes the stall just smells like straight ass (a shower’s purpose is to make you clean, so why would it smell like that?).

We finally reach the sinks, the hidden disaster within this special hell reserved for us. From unwashed spit and boogers, to pasta noodles and grimy dental floss, you can’t ever look down into the sink bowl when you wash your hands. The weak water pressure refuses to break through the layers of dried toothpaste, and with no paper towels in sight, cleaning it is not in anyone’s best interest, unless it’s with a three-foot pole.

The First-Year Village bathrooms do have some positives: sometimes one is lucky enough to find a decently clean shower, a dry toilet seat, or a bearable looking sink. It would be a much nicer bathroom if the people making use of such facilities can figure out how to use it. As nice as they look, it’s just as deceiving as the people on “Catfish.” This rating is a 2/10 from me folks.

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