Gravy

Quite honestly, I didn't see very many gross things yesterday. Susquehanna's campus is beautiful, especially compared to the grossness of my home. Gross is how everything in New York smell's faintly of pee; gross is a dead rat on the subway tracks. Gross is not here.
But there was one thing that made me cringe. My school lets us leave the building for lunch, and so I've never had to suffer through the dreaded cafeteria food you hear about as a child. To me, Susquehanna's food has seemed pretty good, even though I have nothing to compare it with. But there was one thing last night that made my stomach squirm.
Online for dinner, all I could think about was my hunger and the smells rising from the hot food. The pasta looked good, as did it's sauce. And even the mashed potatoes looked good.
But then came the gravy. Poured liberally onto the lump of mashed potatoes and reminding me uncomfortably of the congealed chicken fat in my aunt's fridge last Thanksgiving, it dribbled down the sides of the mashed potato mountain and trickled into the other food. In no time it was mixed with the marinara sauce, the red and grayish cream separating with what looked like a thin film of grease in between. When I lifted a forkful of pasta, the gravy dripped from it with the viscosity of molasses, a slow, thoughtful drip that fell--you guessed it--into my water glass, slithering over the grainy ice cubes to float in the water like some bizarre sea sponge. To me, unfortunately, it looked more like sea sponge vomit as it disappeared deep into the recesses of the paper cup.
I didn't drink the rest of that water.