Forks and cups clattered in the cafeteria's dish return bin – the unofficial soundtrack to my lunchtime. I stood off to the side, trying to decipher the hieroglyphics written on the microwave's control panel. My attempt at re-heating last night's pasta had failed, again. As I frantically searched for a button with some semblance of logic, a bespectacled student with a bright purple beard strolled up beside me, peered at the buttons and effortlessly dialed up the right temp – all while reciting the entirety of 'The Waste Land' in iambic pentameter under his breath.
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