the Forty Fourth Story

The Mushroom story: (this one's good! it has a punchline! it's worth reading to the end)I lived in one apartment for almost the entire time I was at Massart, but during that time, lots of folks moved in and out. After I'd been there for six months, everyone but me left, and Svea, Tom, and Sonia all moved in. This was ideal. Everyone got along, everyone had similar ideas of personal space, things were great. Svea moved out and Tyrell moved in. Things were still great.  Sonia moved out and Amber moved in. It still worked. Then Amber decided we needed a chore schedule. This pissed off everyone, and everyone, without talking about, decided they were only doing chores as they were assigned, but mostly still only did the chores that they had been doing before the schedule. Previously, Tom pretty much didn't clean, but he regularly made chilli and cheese cakes, and that was a fine balance, as far as I was concerned. I kept the bathroom and counters cleaned. Everybody did their dishes (including Tom). Sonia had done most of the neatening, and I admit, we were collectively falling behind in that department with her gone. One month, on Amber's bathroom cleaning turn, she made everything in there REALLY neat. Cleaned the mirror so it shone. Put the shampoo bottles in order by size. Looked great.
That night, Dustin was over. About three AM he got up to go to the bathroom. He shouted back "Kest, come here! You've got to see this!" There is, I thought, nothing I could need to see in my bathroom at three am. I shouted back a simple "no". He insisted. I put on a bathrobe and went out, bitching in my head. There, though, in the corner of the bathroom, were mushrooms. Sprouting right from the floor. They were aesthetically pleasing, and also absolutely hilarious, particularly after the scene Amber had made about how she was the only one who ever really got anything clean in the house. Dustin and I stood there and laughed for a while, I took a picture, and we went to bed. I left the mushrooms in place, knowing that Tom would enjoy them at least as much as I had.
In the morning, I got up and asked Tom if he'd seen the mushrooms. He hadn't, and I took him in to show him, but they were gone! We were both upset by this tragedy, and asked Amber if she knew anything about it. She was livid, and utterly unamused.

the nineteenth story

Today, a Massart story:
a little context is necessary for this one. I was a small metals major at Massart, but spent at least as much time in the foundry and attached large metal studio as I did in small metals. Small metals was a very clean, quiet studio- the kind of place where you could concentrate on setting a stone just so. Large metals was loud, and chaotic, and very dirty. I looked like I belonged in the latter.

So there I am, covered head to toe in black dirt, in a tank top and stained carrharts, sitting on my bench at the end of the row in small metals. I was grinding off a sprue (that would be where you pour whatever material you're casting into whatever it is your casting). It was from a bronze thing that I'd cast in the foundry, but was relativly small, so I was using the flex shaft. Most of the casting I did was large scale, and sprue grinding would have been done downstairs, with an angle grinder, standing up. A flex shaft is used sitting down. The red hot sprue flew off when the grinding was done- right down my pants.

I reacted the way that anyone would to a cherry red bit of bronze down one's pants. I yelled like a lumberjack, lept up, put my hand down my pants, and, when that didn't work, dropped my trousers in the middle of the studio, while still cursing more or less at the top of my lungs.

I still have a scar in an unmentionable location, and I NEVER go into the studio without a belt.

the second story

Another short story: I transferred in to Massart, having already attended two (yes two) other schools. I still had to take a few freshman classes, though, including something that involved painting. One of my professors caught me hiding my enormous paintings in a stairwell, and gave me a key to an empty room to use as a studio. This was awesome. For weeks, I had that room to myself, and, being the person I am, I would frequently take off my shirt to paint, as to avoid staining it. That was great, until one day, the professor gave a key to another student, who opened the door to see me, nearly nude, painting a still life. He squeaked, turned beet red, and slammed the door. We later became great friends.