I ate the clam chowder at Chase and now I am clairvoyant

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I smelled it before I saw it. A pungent odor that could only be Fresh Never Frozen Clams from Walmart (Cesium-137 Free). I peered into the silver pot, as though the clamminess and chowderiness of the clam chowder might contain the answer to all my prayers.

I ladled myself an aliquot of the soup, 483 mL of pure, unadulterated, barely restrained bliss in a bowl. Walking to my seat, I gingerly set it down. Once again, I wafted the astringent aroma towards my nostrils, my nose hairs singed in the process. I close my eyes, and bring a spoon to my mouth.

The stew worked fast. Immediately, my tastebuds are incinerated as the chowder bypasses my esophagus and shoots straight up into my brain.

Images flit through my cranium, glimpses into what could only be the future.

On 10/31, at 7:36 PM, UNC will accept a crushing 2-302 defeat against Syracuse. “Thank you, Syracuse,” Bill Belichick will say. “Your love has broken the curse and freed my soul, I’ll never have to kill [college football careers] again.”

On 10/27, at 8:03 PM, YikYak will be filled with people detailing death threats towards the chemistry department. Their threats will fall on deaf ears.

On 12/5, at 12:03 AM, the Davie Poplar tree will fall and UNC will fall with it and I won’t have to take my fuckass PHYS115 final.

Clairvoyant? Nay. I am Clamvoyant.

Author

Preethika Ratnam

Preethika Ratnam is a writer for the The Oh Well and writes for the university’s satire paper (The Oh Well). Some of her pet peeves are redundancy, which means repeating the same thing over and over again, and repetitiveness, which means being redundant. Critics have described her as “legit awesomeness” and “awesomeness level maxxed out.” Fans have described her as “…”. This is because fans don’t talk. At least not the ones that create a wind-chill effect by circulating air.