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An Ode to Heubeck Dining Hall

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In your 9:20 am class, someone says, “I really want a Heubeck burrito.” You roll your eyes—how could someone want Heubeck burritos that badly? Watery sour cream, variable ingredients dependent on the day, cracking flour tortillas. Also, it’s 9 in the morning. You barely had time to drag yourself out of bed; you didn’t even have time to stop at Pick 3 for a Tupperware of rubbery scrambled eggs. But then you think about it harder, and, gosh, you really want a Heubeck burrito, more than you can ever remember wanting a food. It becomes a tangible thing, like if you don’t get a bite of cold shredded cheese in the next day, you might actually die.

The Heubeck dining hall had been another terrible loss, another soldier to lose its life in the battle against Mary Fisher. Unlike Stimson, Heubeck had no toxic smells or no suspicious stains. You knew Heubeck was bound to be lost after the death of Passport Cafe, a name that’s dug into your memories and now sits somewhere primal and distant, carved into a gravestone that purely exists in the collective past of Goucher students.

Heubeck had been a museum, a preservation of all the things you had loved throughout your years here. Fall of your freshman year, you stopped in Heubeck every day to pick up a bag of jalapeño Cheetos. The next spring, it had been the blue Naked juices they had, even if they were a ridiculous hit to your Flex count. Then your roommate introduced you to Heubeck’s mixed milkshakes, and that was your obsession for another few months. Each semester, a new fad, a new must-have. It didn’t matter—Heubeck had it all, Heubeck had everything you could imagine. Somewhere in between the glass sliding doors of the fridges and the confusing lines that ran out into the hallway, there was a subtle, hidden magic. Heubeck recognized you. Heubeck knew what you wanted. Heubeck made sure it would be there for you. Yes, it was tiny, and, yes, it was chaotic. But it did everything it could to make itself into a home for you. A mother who invited you into her own warm womb.

Are they still there, you wonder, the fridges and the registers and the black cloth retractable belts in the middle of the floor, barely attempting to hold everyone in line? Are they lonely? Do they stare out the windows into the hallway, watching you as you pass? Maybe they sneak into the Multipurpose Room, play a secret tune on the piano, or watch the students below on Van Meter, unsuspecting, ignorant of all they’ve left behind. Maybe they are angry that you have forgotten them. You, who used to smile at them every single time you picked up a container of Fruit Loops in the morning.

The new Student Market is even smaller than Heubeck, has even less space for the chaos of the 1:10 pm lunch rush. There is no excitement there, unparalleled to the ecstacy of finding out that Heubeck was serving french fries. Student Market tries to compensate with impossible burgers and vegan breakfast burritos, targeting those student demographics that Heubeck never bothered to acknowledge. It offers you Pick 3 with shaking, embarrassed hands, a full take-out meal for a meal swipe to address that the other food can only be payed for in Flex. But nothing will compare to Heubeck serving hot mac and cheese for lunch, or the joy of filling up your flimsy paper plate with greasy chicken nuggets.

With the closing of Stimson and Heubeck both, the heart of the campus has been unrooted. You feel unmoored, drifting from day to day; your body doesn’t recognize nighttime without a meal from Stimson or Heubeck. You struggle to feel awake in classes without your daily egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel, carried on a paper plate all the way down Van Meter. You are unaware, lost, unsure how to be the person you once were without these homes. The magic that existed in these places is gone, slowly drained away into the dirt below the Van Meter stone. The souls fed and inspired and housed, now left homeless, drifting. You can feel them, sometimes, on the edge of your consciousness. They call out to you, they whisper, Please come home.

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Sweet ice that grows in my heart,

Let your sadness be thawed,

Let your sweet Sappho song breathe to me

Allow my words to flow freely

As I slip into the sweet lavender scent

May your strawberry coated lips echo those words

Which flow from my mind and heart into your soul

I hope it echoes there  

May your words never hold any restraint

May they reverberate in the fabric of life

Not as a miserable note

But as a sweet song of a lark

Kind little bird

Spread your wings

Fly wherever you feel free

Go to the lush green forests of meadow and dew

Sit upon the perch where waves crash over aged oak into the vast open sea

Feel the salt on your feathers

The moon on your back

Lovely little bird

Grow into a swan

Do not mourn me

But if you do return

If you find life upon the wind too dangerous

If you wish to return to my soft and gentle embrace

Let me wrap you up in cotton

Let me sing you sweet lullabies

Feed you sweet things

Let me kiss your scared wounds

Let the cuts in your heart fade

Let me help you throw your doors of opportunity wide open

So that you may feel free again

Sweet lovely graceful swan

I love you so.

I let you go.

Six Facts About Hoobastank That You Will Not Believe! #4 made me want to punch a baby!

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Hoobastank is the world’s foremost rock band. Known for 2003’s song of the year “The Reason” and others, Hoobastank has become an international household name. Here are six facts (one for each fantastic album) you may not know about this incredible band!

  1. Hoobastank was influenced by Bulgarian wrestling.

Hoobastank’s original bassist, Markku Lappalainen, was a big fan of Bulgarian wrestling. He was especially a fan of Stanka Zlateva, a 5-time European Champion. In her early days of wrestling, she used to come into the ring yelling “Who’s The Stanka?” to which the crowds would reply “You The Stanka!” That response, in a thick Bulgarian accent, gave Lappalainen the idea for the band name Hoobastank. Incredibly enough, after the critically acclaimed 2003 album The Reason came out, Hoobastank was invited to perform the homonymous song as Zlateva’s entrance music during the 2004 Summer Olympics in Athens!

  1. Doug Robb is a record-breaking skydiver.

In July 2005, Doug Robb and his brother Bank went on a skydiving trip right outside of San Francisco. They started to get into a fight on the way up into the air, until Bank couldn’t help himself, and yelled “every man for himself,” while pushing Doug off the plane without a parachute. Miraculously, Doug survived, and became the first person to ever skydive without a parachute. This experience became the basis for Hoobastank’s 2006 concept album, Every Man For Himself.

  1. Their Grammy performance caused a riot.

After their new album “Push Pull” came out last year, they were invited to perform at the 2019 Grammys. During the performance of the single “More Beautiful,” Robb started changing the lyrics to some very politically charged remarks, including, “Donald Trump is more beautiful than Shaq,” “climate change would be solved if everyone stayed inside,” “‘Voulez-Vous’ is the superior ABBA song,” and many, many others. The aforementioned ABBA comment caused quite the stir, as the Grammys host Alicia Keys was recently engaged to Björn Ulvaeus, one of the members of ABBA. The crowds started to swarm the stage, and Hoobastank had to be kicked out of the Staples Center.

  1. Hoobastank had a plan to swing onto Broadway.

In early 2008, Hoobastank was contacted by Julie Taymor, known for directing the hit broadway adaptation of The Lion King. She was working on the upcoming musical Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark, and believed Hoobastank would be perfect for writing the music. Of course, the band agreed, and wrote some incredible music for the show. Unfortunately, due to creative differences between Taymor and Hoobastank’s drummer Chris Hesse, they were taken off the project, to be replaced by upcoming artists Paul David Hewson and David Howell Evans of the band You Too. Hoobastank included a few of the songs they wrote for the musical, including the hit “Who The Hell Am I?” in their 2009 Fornever.

  1. Their guitarist may have some Nietzschean blood.

Hoobastank’s world famous guitarist Dan Estrin is an outspoken existentialist. In 2016, he appeared on season 8 of TLC’s Who Do You Think You Are? in an attempt to learn more about his background. On Estrin’s episode, he discovered that he is a distant cousin of Friedrich Nietzsche! Unfortunately, he had a heart attack very soon after this discovery and passed away on December 19, 2016.

  1. The current members of Hoobastank are ready to change the world.

In a 2018 interview with Robb and Estrin, Estrin announced that the entire band will begin campaigning for the 2020 presidential election. When asked why, Robb simply replied, “the reason is you,” stood up, and left, and, as of this publication, has yet to be found. Although we currently don’t know much about their stances or their affiliation, what they have said is that their top priority as president is to change the national anthem to ABBA’s “Voulez-Vous.”

(Note: the editors of the Q researched the information Lee Winters presented in this article, and have discovered none of the information to be true. We are currently reaching out to Winters for an explanation.)

Restroom Review – Wagner Fourth Floor



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. 🙂

Ten Billion Dollars and Half a Pie on 5th Avenue


Based on a true story seen on the corner of Fifth Avenue New York. 

On the corner I sat with a little pie no bigger than your monstrous hand on the corner of Fifth Avenue. It was small, I guess, but it was huge to me. I’ve never seen a bigger pie in all of my life and neither had Rex. The way he licked his drool-covered lips and lay down upon my concrete bed, I just knew. I just knew he was hungry. He didn’t ask for the pitiful stares or the condescending pats or the occasional pies. What he did ask for was a bed and they gave it to him I guess… It wasn’t soft but the world never really is now. Not after you see it fall apart as we have. Guns, bullet shells, guns, more guns and thick runny blood fills my shattered dreams. Rex is no different, really, his legs move up and down to no particular rhyme. That’s how I know he’s running away from his dreams, not chasing them. It’s hard to run towards something you can’t see and it’s even harder when you look through cracked and bloodied lenses.

They’re really just shards of glass that are mixed with crusted blood, a byproduct of my hopeless past. Those little pieces don’t make a good telescope, or glasses for that matter.

You know when you stare through a telescope with the lens cap on? Well it’s basically the same except I’m looking at you, not the universe. Cracked and falling, all you can see is the abyss. Black, all I see is black. An overwhelming inky grey that fills the corners of my mind telling me there’s nothing out there.

I’d like to live there, in those perverse corners of my mind, in the inky black, where the screen is shattered and all they can see is the cracked walls of my bullet ridden telescope. My rimmed broken glasses trying to stare out into the world and tell it hello because then I don’t have to feel anything. The tears don’t threaten to spill and a smile won’t accidently work its way onto my face. I don’t want to see the world because it hurts so bad just as it feels so good and I can’t do that to a world that has prescribed my place as the fire hydrant sitting on the street corner. It’s just too scary for them to let me love. I understand, it’s too scary for me too.

My smile isn’t beautiful like those of the million dollar models that line the shop windows and my laugh is not like that of the man who saw his daughter walk for the first time and then plop her bottom on the ground. I’m not beautiful to this world and, to be perfectly honest with you, the world hasn’t been that beautiful to me. It’s not about the world though, and it’s not about me. We as humans are big. We’re big and bad and transcend the line of impossible but we’re also tiny, delicate, and kind. At least I am. I know that. I know the day I pulled the trigger I felt like a god dictating who can die and who can live and I loved it. I really loved it. I felt powerful and worthy and strong like I could do anything but all I managed to do that day was shatter the looking glass. I’m no god baby, I’m really not. I can’t speak for the billions that line my street corner, but I could speculate that they wish they could smile instead of shatter.

I’m no god, baby.        

And that’s why I gave the little girl the pie and smiled big. Not because I didn’t know her father would throw it away at the next street over but because I knew my smile was worth something. I looked terrifying with my goofy smile and smelly clothing but I promise you the pie was ok and so was the girl.         

In case you were wondering, that pie burned me. It burned my hand in fact and I cried. Then I smiled because at least then I felt something other than power.          

Restroom Review – First Year Village

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.

An Ode to Stimson

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“Your shirt smells like Stimson,” someone tells you. There’s not a specific smell that you can pinpoint as smelling like an entire building, but you know exactly what they mean. Yet — you haven’t been in Stimson in, like, eight months. Actually, you can’t remember the last time you were in Stimson. Also, this shirt is brand-new. Does that mean that everything you wear smells like Stimson? Do you just smell like Stimson?

“Stimson was supposed to be knocked down in the seventies,” an upperclassman said once, back when you were still a freshman. It was a funny joke; Stimson was the focal point of the entire campus, the meeting grounds at which clumps of people would reunite each mealtime. Now the administration is saying again that Stimson will be gone soon. Isn’t that what they promised last time? Maybe there will always be cycles of new people saying that Stimson will be destroyed every decade or so. Maybe you should switch your means of measuring time to be the last time someone said Stimson would be eliminated. How many years has it been since 2010? Oh, I don’t know anymore, but it’s been seventeen years since someone in a suit promised last Stimson would burn.

“I swear I heard a mouse last night,” your roommate used to say, back when you both lived in Winslow 3. Now whenever you walk past Stimson, all you can see are mice. They have built a home for themselves in the abandoned hallways of Connor. They seem to watch you through the windows through the cracking mesh screens, leer at you with their vacuous stares. One of them seems to be wearing a crown. They have colonized the land that was once yours, made it their own. They live amongst the ruins. They are all that is left.

For the last few years, nature has been waging its own war against the aging collection of buildings called Stimson. First came the mice, but then the spiders, and the moths. They live in the showers, buried into the carpets, hidden underneath the closet doors. And do you remember the bees? An entire swarming colony of them. “Docile,” the Public Safety email said they were, but when you saw them, you knew they were anything but. Their buzzing seemed to you like screaming, like a warning, Stay out. Or, possibly, Stay away.

The new campus fulcrum, Mary Fisher, looks upon Stimson with jealousy. It has glass windows that, for some reason, are cloaked in black fabric, and updated appliances and cool orange chairs. But you know better. The orange chairs are too high for anyone to comfortably sit upon. The white floors are too clean, they smell like Lysol, sterilized and shiny. There are no stains here. Mary Fisher wages a war against the nature that controls Stimson now, fights back. It says, You may have won that battle, but you will not take me.

In sandwich line at Mary Fisher the other day, you overheard a freshman say to another freshman, “Stimson? I don’t even know where that is.” You have been here for a thousand years, and these freshman are so young and new and you feel sorry for them. You think of the smell, of the line outside by the corkboard, of the mice you cohabited with, of the recycled promise of its downfall. And you smile to yourself, because Stimson was more than just a building that may eventually be conquered, it was a talisman, a memento, an inspiration, of resilience and strength. An old friend that smiles at you sadly from the far side of Van Meter, but you never quite have the energy to go and say hello.




Photo credit: claire a. hansen

i love our soft forms of resistance

quick kisses in the hotel hallway

laughing together while getting eaten by mosquitoes

touching our toes together in a hot tub

it’s a hot summer full of anger and fear

i’m swimming in it but

you’re my lighthouse


when we aren’t afraid

because no one can find us

we’re funny and quiet and sexy and dreaming

all at once

we can imagine a future together

one that we both want

one where we both thrive

one where we swim into a more gentle sea

and make it to shore

Space Log Day 250

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Today we got our final message from The Department. It came through right in the middle of our weekly U.S. History lesson. For once, class was actually interesting — Kennedy had just gotten shot in the head, and the communications system started beeping. Not the usual ringing that happens when we get an email or a movie, but beeping, like one of those practice alarms that happens sometimes when you’re watching cable. Usually, when we get a message, the ringing stops until one of us has time to go accept the message. But now, the beeping abruptly stopped, and when Mrs. S went to the computer to accept the message, there was nothing there.

Then, later, I was with Gwen and Jake and Zara, hiding in Jake’s hidden cave behind Mr. B’s office. Zara was playing The Sims on her laptop, and Gwen was trying to convince Jacob to drag  the Keurig from Mrs. S’ office back here so we could make hot cocoa without Mrs. S bugging us about food rations.

“Yeah, because the last time you cooked it went so well,” Jake said.

“Will you get over that!” Gwen said. “It was months ago! And Gina did most of the cooking anyway!”

“Leave me out—” I was responding when the alarm went off again, shrieking out of the speakers. I hadn’t even known there were speakers in this secret room, but there must have been some kind of connection to the comms system that we hadn’t known about.

It was everywhere, like a fire drill from back when we were in regular school, except a thousand times louder, and it shook through the walls, making the floors vibrate and into my bones. We all looked at each other in complete shock — nothing like this had ever happened on the ship before.

Zara pulled her headphones out. “What are we supposed to do?”

But none of us knew. The ship didn’t have any kind of emergency evacuation procedures (if this was even that kind of emergency); the only way out was out, into space, into the nothingness.

“We should probably go find Mrs. S or Mr. B,” said Jake.

That sounded good, because even though I knew they would’ve mentioned if we were going to have some kind of drill today, the idea that they might have more knowledge about what was happening was comforting. I couldn’t stop seeing Mrs. S’ confused face from class earlier today, when the beeping started for the first time and then stopped.

We hurried to crawl through the tiny door to Mr. B’s office, but we hadn’t even made it to the hallway before the beeping subsided and a booming voice replaced it.

“THE ALLURE,” it said, even louder than the beeping had been. It sounded robotic, like Siri reading a text message, but also deep and male. Creepy. “WE HAVE READ YOUR MESSAGES. WE HAVE KEPT CORRESPONDENCE. IT HAS BEEN TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DAYS SINCE YOU WOKE UP. THIS IS THE END.”

“The end?” Gwen whispered.

“THIS IS THE END,” the voice said again. “YOU WILL NOT HEAR FROM US AGAIN.”

And then the voice was gone, and the walls and floors weren’t rumbling anymore, and the four of us were alone in the silent, dark hallway, gripping each other with shaking hands.

“Was that The Department?” I asked.

“Let’s just find everyone else,” said Jake.

Zara gasped. “The food stores! They left us up here with no food stores. They knew!”

We found everyone else in one of the classrooms. Mr. B had his head in his hands. Callum Lang and Nico Soto and Tommy Filt were sitting underneath one of the tables. They didn’t look up  when we walked in.

“What did they mean by ‘this is the end’?” Alexandra was asking.

Mrs. S took a deep breath. Her glasses were on the table in front of her; I’d never seen her without them, and her eyes looked smaller, her face rounder and younger.

“This was our mission,” she said. “They didn’t tell us until now, because…we’d never have taken it otherwise.”

“We didn’t take it,” Zara said. “We didn’t have a choice.”

Jake came around to Mrs. S and put a hand on her shoulder. It felt strangely formal, but he was probably scared that she’d yell at him if he attempted any other kind of touching.

“This was our mission,” she repeated. “To come up here and report back to them. To come up here and get left.”

So that’s it, I guess. That’s our destiny, our purpose. To keep floating until the ship runs out of fuel. To keep eating until we run out of food. To keep breathing until we run out of air. To keep writing back to The Department, to you, until we run out of life.

Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but this is going to be my last letter. Hopefully, whoever you are, you’ve read my messages for the last two hundred and fifty days, and gotten to know a little about us eight delinquents who had no choice but to be flung into space. Hopefully we’ve left our mark on you, at least, if we can never make a mark on anyone else again.

Love from,


Restroom Review – Stimson Dining Hall Bathroom

Photo credit: Neassa Hunt

I suppose it’s a bit redundant to call it the “Stimson Dining Hall bathroom” because Stimson is no longer a dining hall. In my defense, this whole review is kind of redundant as we don’t really know the future of Stimson, but it’s my last review of the semester. Probably my last review EVER since I’m supposed to be graduating in December. So, I can do what I want with it and I want to do Stimson. Also, there’s a dorm review in this edition of the Q and if you (the reader) have IBS or else just live in Gamble 2 and need to use an assortment of other restrooms and you want to take this bathroom torch out of my cold dead hands, feel free. You don’t need to be a writer — I’m certainly not one.

Just like Stimson, I’m unsure of my own future outside of college. Stimson was the dorm that welcomed me into Goucher and it only seems fair that it ushers me out as well. It was also the bathroom that first inspired these reviews in the first place. Not because it was particularly lacking, but because one stall (my favorite stall) was missing a hook. And it always frustrated me, even though there were two other perfectly usable stalls with hooks in them. Well, the third one wasn’t entirely usable, but we’ll get to that.

The Stimson hall bathrooms are divided by gender so for the sake of this review, I will be covering the women’s room. (Apologies to male and gender-neutral students.) Assuming you are using the Stimson entrance with the vending machines, go straight up those three little stairs in between the two sets of food and beverage vending machines and on your right is the men’s room and then the women’s. Sometimes the lighting is a bit dim in the entrance.

Normally, privacy would be the first thing discussed, but for Stimson, the most important thing is the SMELL. Stimson, the building, has a smell to it. Not just the bathroom, not just the dorm or the dining hall, the whole building. Now, I lived in Wagner for two years and I’ve adjusted, so now I can barely register it. But for the uninitiated, the smell can be a little overwhelming. I’m not going to dock points, but I am laying out a warning. This is a three-stall bathroom so there’s nothing stopping another person from coming in, but I started using this bathroom in the first place because most of the time it’s pretty sparingly used by other people. Even when this bathroom was servicing an active dining hall, there were times you could find privacy in this room.

The décor is nice. It’s very tan but welcoming. Checkerboard tile floor. The walls are kind of the same ones that the post office has, but with the addition of tan tile layered on top of it to negate the “Russian High School” look. Two sinks with a fair amount of room for placement. Mirrors above each sink. Although I don’t think the pictures that I took convey it properly, the lighting is very gentle. The third stall has a Tork brand toilet paper holder (the sloped kind you can’t rest things on top of) as compared to the other two stalls which have the SCA flat top brand. The second stall and the third stall have a hook, but as previously mentioned, the first stall doesn’t have one.

For an acoustic note, there is a fan built into the wall of this bathroom. It’s above the toilet in the second stall. I like it, but I could understand if someone found noise it makes to annoying or creepy.

Stimson has some fun extras: four vending machines (two beverage and two snack) and a ping pong table. The ping pong table used to be a negative as I didn’t love having to walk past a bunch of people, but now that the table is in less constant use, there’s less people to deal with and it’s more of a neutral extra than anything.

Personally, due to nostalgia, and the fact that this bathroom has helped me out of a jam or two, I would give it a 10/10.

But I think I need to be a little bit more objective and say that for everyone else this bathroom is probably going to rate closer to an 8/10.

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