- Quinnipiac partners with People’s United Bank
- Quinnipiac baseball secures 2-1 series win against Niagara
- Former Quinnipiac men’s ice hockey player Connor Clifton signs with the Boston Bruins
- Quinnipiac Avenue explosion
- Push for perfection
- Moving forward, looking back. Farewell Lahey
- Freshman reflect, Seniors say goodbye
- Wawa Craze
- The beginning of the end
- One Album, Three Meanings
An open letter to the creepy fire alarm voice at York Hill
Dear creepy fire alarm voice of York Hill,
I have a serious bone to pick with you.
I am sure you are chuckling heartily to yourself about that little stunt you pulled around 11 o’clock the other night. I, but one of your countless victims, am not.
Your damage was evident. I saw sleeping students scattered in random places across campus. I myself (hoping for a productive day) was forced into a midday nap.
Why are you personified? I thought my fire alarm was bizarre in middle school because it sounded like a drowning cow, but the fact that you are a demanding yet sinisterly polite female really boggles my mind. And I just love how you have your own little introduction before you start berating us, the alarm sounds first and your flashing theatrical performance of lights to announce that Satan’s girlfriend is about to take the floor.
“May I have your attention please?”
Not really lady, seeing as how I am in the middle of a dream (or shower), but since this is a rhetorical question, go on.
“An emergency has been reported.”
So people report to you, miss? And, yes, I think the fact someone cannot make bacon is very sad … but I am not sure if it constitutes an emergency.
My favorite part of your whole speech is when you tell us not to take the elevators. Ha! You are the voice of the elevator too, so that is the last thing I will be doing. I bet if I even tried you would let me get in first and then creepily announce, “What did I say about the elevator.” Now I know why no matter what button I push you seem to love saying “Going DOWN” before the elevator doors close. As if going to a parking garage at night is not unsettling enough.
What kills me is you are not even discrete — five times in a week here, two times in a week there. You are a smart one. When you woke us all up early on that Friday morning I had to shake my head and laugh at your cruel sense of humor. I think you deserve a name—after all you do have a distinct voice. What was the name of the woman in “Smart House?” I think you should have a giant hologram that shoots out of those obnoxious lights and you can guide us to the doors and not the elevators. I envision you with glasses and a really slicked-back pony tail. Just know that we see what you are up to, and us Yorkers are not going to take it anymore. It is bad enough we have to listen to construction vehicles back up the entire mountain.
We do not need your input too.
Sleepless in York