While transcribing an interview for an article in the top deck of Two Kick, I felt the incessant malevolent rumbling in the pit of my stomach. Every time this has happened, there has been one common denominator: Gwinn Commons Dining Hall. After every break, every home-cooked meal and every gap between Gwinners and Gwunches, I have been attacked.

The sad part is that I love eating at Gwinn. It could be a Stockholm syndrome situation or nostalgia from the first two years of my college career, but I have a soft spot in my heart for Gwinn. The social aspect of the dining hall, sitting around and eating with a bunch of friends after perusing the buffet, laughing over the ambient noise of chatter fills me with so much joy.

So, when a friend offers a free meal swipe, it feels good to be in there, like a return to normal. That is, until it is revealed that my bowl of spaghetti and meatballs is actually a bowl of rocks that have sunk to the bottom of my belly.

Something has to change. I do not know what it is about Gwinn food, but your body gets used to the terrible tearing of your stomach lining after a while. For anyone else, like a commuter or a non-meal-plan-haver, it is a sacrifice. On one hand, easy and accessible food with friends. On the other hand, the devil will take the soul of your digestive tract for three to five business days.

Even for those with meal plans, going home and resetting your system with food from home during the three weeks of winter break is enough to lull your stomach into a false sense of security before mollywhopping it with a suckerpunch from the glove of a Gwinn Burger Thursday.

I do not have a meal plan anymore, so I do not get to go all of the time. When I do, I expect to eat food and hold onto it for a little while.

But hey, free food is free food.