It’s over. I can’t hide this from anyone anymore. Everyone who knows me or has been in contact with me over these past couple of weeks has noticed that there’s something deeply wrong with me. Today is the day that the truth comes out, no matter what the cost. Last week on a covert mission with the DNP (Deacon Narcotics Patrol), I infiltrated the depths of Johnson Residence Hall.

In retrospect, I really don’t know how I didn’t realize that this was a suicide mission, through and through. In my debrief, everything remained classified (I went in completely blind, not knowing what lay ahead of me, nor the life-endangering risks that I would end up taking). Going in, all I had was some intel about people that didn’t have their masks on in one of the basement common rooms. So, my commanding officer looked to her best, brightest and most passionate snitch on the entire campus. Naturally, I went all out.

I remember thinking to myself, how could I let such a super-spreader event occur under my watch? If I was going to protect every single student on campus, I knew such could only be accomplished by going into people’s rooms, one by one, and making sure that each and every individual had their masks on.

I also knew that my holy crusade must begin in the belly of the beast — the Johnson basement. A place where few, if any, students strayed.

As a proud alumnus of Angelou Residence Hall, I had only heard the legends about this dark biohazard of a dormitory on campus. We told each other the stories we had overheard as we played games on our air-hockey tables and spoke over the incredibly immersive audio system and giant TVs in our media rooms. Yet, my fellow Angelou brethren and I understood that nothing could possibly compare to the nightmarish events that occurred within the walls of Johnson itself.

We wondered in awe about the sizes of their rooms — it was rumored that empty singles were a disciplinary measure used by the administration for solitary confinement. There were times at night when I would gaze over my reflection in the mirror above my sink in my vast double, wondering what it would be like if I didn’t have any of this.

If we’re being honest here, Johnsonites are easy to spot. I mean, they were hand-selected by Res Life, condemned to suffer for a year in the depths of despair. Now don’t get me wrong, some of them might not deserve it, but after a year or even a semester in that dorm, who amongst us wouldn’t turn to the dark side? Broken air purifiers, heads busting through walls — the list goes on and on. The place was ripe for the picking, and I was beyond ready to contact some residential advisors and annoy the campus police.

I ventured into that darkness on March 6, a time I carefully chose so I could catch wrongdoers coming back from darties hoping for a Saturday evening snooze. Armed with my trusty walkie-talkie and dripping with 10-pocketed cargo-pant swag, I crept into the dorm and awaited action. As I descended down the stairs into the lowest floor, my heart skipped a beat when the overhead lights of the corridor suddenly went out. A dark figure loomed some 20 feet away.

Believe me when I tell you this: that night, I saw a seven-foot-tall reptilian standing across from me. It was only after I called out to the creature to identify itself that I watched it transform back a Johnson resident — a red puffer jacket somehow rising out of her green flesh.

Before I could escape, I realized there was a strange smell in the air. It was as if someone had rolled around the floor of DKE, covering their undergarments with sweat and vomit before taking them to Subway and toasting them in a meatball sub, then dunking said sub in a vat of Pit dishwater, eating said sub, throwing up said sub, scattering the remains of the regurgitation on the upper quad, re-collecting these remains and then storing them in a Tupperware container placed inside of the air ventilation system for years … decades … eons, even.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me what that rancid scent was. It was the infamous “Mold of Johnson,” the scourge of students.

I have continued to feel its effects in the weeks since my infection. I now have an unbridled urge to make my room as messy as possible. I must make the dumbest choices available to me and I feel a strange attraction to anyone named Johnson. I think I might also have chronic bronchitis now.

Let this article be my plea to the administration. President Hatch, tear down this dormitory. You have unleashed an ancient darkness under the earth, and now every student will suffer the consequences.

Bring in the Property Brothers. They can demo this place — I know they can.