The Goddamn Pit – UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO The Reporter taps her pen on her clipboard impatiently, ignoring the incessant twitch making her red converse squeak against the dirty floor, her cuffed jeans scraping against the metallic bench. Her eyes flicker to the top of her notepad, where “The Pit” is written in a messy, un-Muji pen, hurried script. All three of those adjectives annoy her – for different reasons, of course, but all three fuel her foot-tapping. She checks her phone and it flashes a bright 1:59 pm at her. 

 

With a click of her tongue, she decides there’s probably enough time to stop being so damn mysterious and explain to The Reader why the three adjectives display her annoyance. First, the writing is messy. And though the reporter can get messy, she despises having messy handwriting, because she did not spend hours on Pinterest’s calligraphy section at the crack of dawn throughout most of her childhood to have messy handwriting. She won’t look at it unless it’s pretty.

 

Second, she wrote it without using a Muji pen, which in and of itself is a travesty, but she used (The Reporter swallows down a strong desire to gag) a 0.5 ballpoint pen. On the one hand, she’s one step closer to Logan Lerman/Percy Jackson, but on the other, using anything other than 0.38 Muji Indigo pens makes her want to rip the page out of her notepad. 

 

Third, it’s hurried. The Reporter presses her forefinger against her thumb, twirling her black ring pensively. She had hurried out of her tutorial, nearly forgetting her new thrifted flannel, tripping over the laces of her hightops as she scribbled down “The Pit” on her stolen PEO engineering paper notepad. Why was she so hurried, dear reader? The Reporter’s eyes shift to the note clutched in her hand. It reads:

 

Asami Sato. The Pit, bring lemon bars. 

 

The Reporter scowls passionately at it. Not because of what it says (that makes her passionate in.. other ways), but because she rushed off to The Pit as soon as she got the note, sans lemon bars (something the HardHat Cafe should invest in, she noted) only to be met with disappointment. Or rather, no one to meet at all. 

 

Adjusting her seated position, The Reporter checks her phone again. 1:59 pm. Her heart drops. How was that possible? SHe had gone through an entire inner monologue, and not a single minute passed? 

 

We chuckle as we watch her confusion. The Reporter seems to notice, for the first time, that the Pit is completely empty. That’s when she sees us. “Who are you!” she yells up at our magnificent selves. 

 

We smile back serenely, finger gunning magnificently. “Bisexuals.” 

 

The Reporter stares up at us in confusion, but before she can continue, we decide to mess with her a little. “You’re one of us. Look at you,” we say, gesturing at her general self. “You’re here. Which means you’re enough of a simp for Our God Asami to have come here at all.” 

 

The Reporter opens her mouth, and then closes it. She looks down from our deliciously glowing bodies and frowns, thinking deeply. She thinks about her childhood crushes and her heart speeds up. Obviously, they’re Hiccup from How to Train Your Dragon, Ben from Ben Ten, and Dimitri from Anastasia, and Jim from Treasure Planet and Shang from Mulan… but, oh god, she did have an unhealthy obsession with Jade from Victorious and those two smoldering hot snacks from the Mummy, and Chel from El Dorado, Helga from Atlantis, and she did make her Barbies kiss as a kid, but it probably all started with… 

 

“Oh god. I think,” she hesitates. She looks back up at us, having made up her mind. “I think Asami made me gay.” 

 

She finger guns.