I am a Neon Yellow Fat Clown.

I don't know how many of you go to BYU.
And I don't know how many of you actually park on the north side of campus in student parking.
But getting out of the car and getting to class from that parking lot is kind of like the Ten Commandments when they put Moses in the desert and are like "Ok. Go. See ya."

Unless I have 2+ classes, a quiz, and my iPod is charged, this trek is almost never worth it.

This pretty hip guy I know, a senior, actually circumnavigates the entire campus car registration system and just parks in visitor parking at the campus art museum every. Single. Day. I don't know how he doesn't get recognized by the snotty little parking guy in the snotty little parking box thing (excluding my friend Ben who is decidedly unsnotty and works in the snotty box sometimes. Not you, Ben.)

There are most certainly a large group of those kind of people that seem to slither out from under all kinds of campus rules and get to park within a mile of campus because they're slithery and somehow more unnoticeable than the people in my category, which is apparently collectively wearing a big fatty neon yellow clown suit and waving its arms ME ME I'M ILLEGALLY PARKED.
These snakey people are in the same category as the girls who don't wear any pants to campus (thin, butt-bearing leggings instead) and don't get in trouble. Me, they basically tackle to the grass and cover with a big modest sheet.

When I do that.

But back to parking.
The slitherers don't have to trek through the stinging wintery sands of the Marriott Center parking lot after spending forty-five pathetically hopeful minutes weaving their vehicle through the first seven rows of parking when they know there really won't be a spot--but they'll ALWAYS look. Because wasting time looking for a space is worth the 80 extra feet you won't have to walk if you actually find one.
They don't have to despair when they get out of their car and realize their iPod isn't charged, because they don't have to walk seventeen thousand miles up one hill and down another and across the street and by the big X-y building. They have to only saunter quickly past the X-y building, so it doesn't really matter if they have tunes accompanying them.
They don't have to get whistled at by construction workers working on that new multimedia building, or get burned by the sparks shooting dangerously from their big sexy power tools.
Ok, I made the power tool part up.

Me, I'm a pansy, and a respectful-of-the-parking-rules pansy at that.
I actually am not that respectful, I just have luck bad enough that I get parking tickets if I'm parked in 30-minute parking for thirty minutes and seven seconds. Even if I'm running full-out at my car and waving my arms and screaming not to give me a ticket I had to turn in a paper stop chalking. My car. Get away from it, Mr. policeman friend, and go be one of the fourteen squad cars dramatically surrounding the next fender bender on University next to Fat Cats.
I know people who park in 30-minute parking every other day for three or four hours and their cars aren't touched.

Is it because I drive a custom Buick? That is a very outstanding color of teal?
Are you telling me that someone who parked in faculty parking would not drive a boat of a car with a giant dent in the right side? I don't think they really get paid that much.
Is it the little Disneyland sticker in the back window.
Is it the little devil head with diamond eyes hanging from my rear view mirror that Trevor brought me from Japan that is supposed to ward off traffic.
Is it the litter of broken sunglasses (I keep sitting on them) in the backseat?
Probably it's because part of my license plate number is the acronym for a certain Phencyclidine.

Give me a dark-colored, conservatively undented, drug-free car any day.
If it means I can park closer than ACROSS THE FROZEN TUNDRA.