However, the weather outside was not on the same page as you. As you walked to your 9a.m., thunder and lightning alerted you to the likelihood of an oncoming storm, but you feel prepared with a travel umbrella tucked away in your backpack.
Your professor lets you out a little early (it needn't take fifty minutes to go over a syllabus) only for you to be greeted by SHEETS of rain. Your brace yourself, open your umbrella, and begin the walk to your next class. Luckily, you're just walking from HUMA to the Baker Institute, so it shouldn't be too bad.
But you soon realize your umbrella situation is not so prime. That perhaps investing in an umbrella other than the flimsy $6 one from CVS might have been a good idea. Perhaps one that doesn't flip inside out when it's windy. Or one that actually blocks raindrops occasionally.
But as seconds pass, you realize that the problem is not limited to the rain falling from the sky, but the massive puddles, no, pools, no, rapids, that are forming all over campus, severely inhibiting your ability to make it from location to location with any dignity or dry clothing intact.
Once you reach your next class, you peel off what sopping wet layers you can and sit shuddering as you read an emergency alert text message from Rice telling you that the roads are flooded (you think?).
By the time it's 10:50, a river has formed between Wiess and the IM fields, standing in the way of the shortest route back to your residential college. You feel bad for the guy who's standing helplessly by his submerged car, unsure of how to get it out of the river. You feel less sympathy for the person in the truck who is barreling down the road and whose massive wave is about five seconds away from splashing you.
Not that it really matters. Every inch of you is already soaked.
When you get back to your room, you find that red Solo cups have many uses outside of beer pong games. It seems your roof has sprung a small leak.
