As investigative journalists dedicated to public service, we here at the Golden Antlers have bestowed it upon ourselves to expose the true nature of Frank’s dining hall at Pomona College (Claremont, CA 91711). Here is a cesspool where normal human interaction ceases to exist but rather elicits the more carnal side of mankind. The Golden Antlers have forced some of our most respected reporters to eat at Frank five times a week, subjecting them to many mind-altering meals and make them go through treacherous journeys to record their own odyssey into South Pomona’s portal into the underground. Attached are their field notes. Disclaimer: To fully understand this article, we recommend that readers have some prior flirtation with social anxiety. Frank cheese bread; light of my life, fire of my loins. My body is melting. My organs are slowly morphing into each other and soon I will be a mere puddle, not unlike the blob of mustard residing on this table. Never have I felt less capable of conversation. I see her mouth moving and various words are spewing out, but how does one respond? The only coherency I hear is this stream of consciousness. The air is tugging at my limbs and forcing them to rest in this manner. This looks normal, right? I’m totally casual right now. Hume was right. As I blankly meander back and forth past the salad bar, I have no concept of the physical world; there is no persistent self. This thought is quickly reaffirming itself as I see someone coming toward me, full knowing that we will be stuck in an eternal tango, fumbling our limbs in an awkward shuffle as we attempt to walk past each other. I am the Underground Man, a troll like being incapable of the lowest common denominator of human interaction. I saw on the snapmap that James is here. There he is. Oh God, how do I wave like a human? Like this? Did he look at me funny? Did we have a real interaction? Huh. Now I’ll never know. This has to be what acid is like. It’s like a child took safety scissors and hollowed out my body so I am a mere shell of a person. I keep eating but the food just falls through. It’s okay to tear up the lettuce with my hands, right? My bones are a viscous sauce of anxiety. God damn it, it should not take any sentient being this long to differentiate between the spoons and knives; why aren’t the bins labeled? Oh, god, someone’s waiting over my shoulder. It’s ok, you can eat steak with a spoon you stupid bitch. Just get out of the way. Of course, not before backing right up into them and accidentally brushing up against their nether region. Other people are sipping the soup from the ladle. Why can’t you? My God, you’re such a conformist. Wait. You’re hallucinating. You can’t do that, you incompetent shit. Nobody did that. If you keep up this pathetic display of etiquette, you will NEVER get that Deloitte internship. Do you know that guy in the corner? Why does he keep looking at me? Why do I keep looking at him? Is it because i’ve gotten up three times already for rehelpings of beef? That’s normal, right? Should I sneak more beef out? For good measure, make sure to carry your leaning tower of half eaten plates to the Claremont’s most inconveniently positioned converter belt as haphazardly as possible! You’re not really eating at Frank if you don’t accidentally scrape more than a quarter of your mashed potatoes onto yourself, are you? Oh yes, please further block the clogged artery of Frank’s main entrance just so you can get a shitty doctor’s office lollipop. I don’t need this, yet my body leads me here. No longer am I autonomous but rather a cog in the greater machine of Frank’s matrix. I just realized that I did indeed steal a steaming bowl of Frank beef under my jacket- maybe the Dining Hall Gods do wish some good unto me after all.