My story of my journey through the depths of the housing lottery hell.

Midway upon the journey of my life, I found myself in a housing lottery so dark I lost the straightforward path. This lottery was savage, dark, and stern hell, and the very thought of it renews fear, but speak will I of the things I saw there.

When the cruel powers that be condemned me to the fate of one of the last numbers in this lottery, I knew that the path ahead would be difficult. As I began to feel hopeless, a figure appeared on the horizon, and as it approached, I recognized it as Bwog. She commanded that I go with her to see the fate of those who have been damned by the lottery so that I might learn to save myself, something I had already considered. And so together, we entered into the hell that is the lottery (for those who are wondering, the entrance is in McBain) so that I might see why, and how, I must save myself.

As we journeyed through, I saw sights that terrified me: in the second circle, those who had a blind double with roommates who constantly sexiled them, in the third, those who lived in dorms where residents left food out, attracting, among other things, cockroaches. I continued through, with my resolve to get a single in Schapiro strengthening every second.

As I approached the eighth circle, rather than fellow students who had been tormented by the lottery, I found a familiar Boris Johnson lookalike. “Lee Carol Bollinger? What are you doing here?” I exclaimed, despite knowing exactly what he did. He looked at me with his cold, dead eyes, and said, “Someday soon, everything from 120th to Manhattanville will be a part of my domain.” I looked him right back in his cold, dead eyes, and said, “Thou spirit maledict, do thou remain; for thee I know, though thou art all defiled.” Leaving, I added, “not somewhere PrezBo is trying to eminent domain” to the list of desired dorm qualities, as my guide congratulated me for my lack of sympathy towards the punished.

I was not yet done seeing familiar faces, though. In the middle of the frozen lake in the ninth circle, I found another familiar face. Right in the jaws of Satan, alongside Judas and Cassius, was Interim Provost Ira Katznelson, with a sign hanging around his neck reading “Thou shalt not call thyself pro-union when it suits you and then turn around and try to fuck GWC-UAW,” as he alternated between screams of the pain of the damned and screaming, “wE nEeD tO bE miNDfUL oF tHe pRiCE oF A sToPPagE.”

As I emerged with my guide from the housing lottery, we once more saw the stars, I knew what I had to do. And so, employing tactics I learned from those who had suffered the wrath of the lottery, despite my abysmal number, I found myself with an assignment to a Schapiro single.

Dante via Bwog Archives