OREM, UT – At precisely 8:07 a.m., the migration begins. Engines roar. Turn signals click like nervous teeth. Students circle the lots the way NASCAR drivers circle Talladega, except instead of a checkered flag, the prize is a compact spot wedged between a lifted truck and a Honda Civic that hasn’t moved since 2019.
“I swear that car’s lights just flashed,” one student whispers, slowing to a crawl.
“Nope,” says their passenger. “False alarm. That’s just the sun mocking us.”
Round and round they go. The same rows. The same disappointment. Hope rises every time a brake light flickers—only to be crushed when the driver pulls out their phone and continues scrolling TikTok, clearly planning to live there now.
One brave soul makes the ultimate sacrifice: they almost park 100 yards away. Almost. They stop. They stare at the distant asphalt like it’s the Oregon Trail.
“That’s basically off-campus,” they mutter.
“I’ll just do one more lap.”
Another student spots an open space—angelic light pouring down from the sky—only to watch it vanish as a Prius appears from nowhere, drifting into it like a ghost with great fuel efficiency.
Tempers flare. Windows roll down.
“You leaving?”
“No.”
“Cool cool cool.”
Eventually, legends are born. Someone gives up entirely and heads home to “watch the lecture online,” a phrase spoken with the same tone one uses when admitting defeat in battle. Another abandons their car in a questionable zone and whispers, “I’ll risk it,” before sprinting toward class like they’ve committed a crime (they have).
By 8:46 a.m., the lots are full, spirits are broken, and classes begin with half the students late, breathless, and emotionally changed.
The bulls have run. The asphalt is conquered. And tomorrow—tomorrow—we do it all again.
