Although one as heroic as you should ordinarily be able to laugh in the face of defeat, you are overtaken by a massive cloud of depression. You pace back and forth thinking that this is the absolutely lowest point in your life and glance into the bathroom mirror.

 You stare blankly. Minutes tick by. "I was the only one in the building," you repeat in monotone over and over again. Then it dawns on you-- you're a fugitive.

 You look down at your own hands in disbelief. The gloves! What would OJ do in this situation? You run your gloves under water, singing "If the gloves don't fit, you must acquit."

 You look back in the mirror, at a face you once recognized as your own. Now it's a different face, flushed fuchsia with embarrassment. You realize that you must play the role of martyr once again.

 You arrive at CPD knowing full well that society, or rather Clark on a Friday night, caused your decent into Hell. You turn yourself in as penance.

 You have done one useful thing tonight: you have given Campus Police a good laugh over donuts. Too bad you're out of housing.