You have to help me. Yes, you, who picked up this paper and are reading this article. I do not have much space on this page, so I will make this brief.
The other day, I was just sitting at my desk, minding my own business, doing some article edits like the good little Pioneer Log editor I am. Then, the next thing I knew, I suddenly became one with the newspaper. My consciousness was suddenly compressed into these twelve little pages and somehow the only space I can find to write is in the Backdooor, unfortunately. Now, of course, no one will take my plight seriously when my legitimate cry for help is wedged between two satire articles.
How did this happen, you ask? Well, I am just as baffled as you are. However, I do have a few running theories. The most reasonable theory seems to be that I managed to fall into the printer and got my whole being transferred into the ink that makes up these pages. I am admittedly a bit of a klutz. Or maybe I was ensnared by a rogue computer science major who digitized my brain, converted me to a PDF and printed me out in the paper. Maybe this is a chemistry experiment gone terribly wrong, or even the work of witchcraft committed by one of my many enemies who disapprove of my work in the Opinion section. Either way, it is rather cramped in here.
Admittedly, being trapped in a newspaper does have its bright sides. I have not had to eat at Fields Dining Hall in four days. And being corporeally altered does count as a valid excused absence from my classes. Plus, living in a PioLog is much more clean and quiet than living in a Lewis & Clark dorm. There is no one to leave any messes laying around or to blast music with wall-rattling bass from three rooms over. I can actually hear myself think in here.
That being said, there really is not much to do. I have read every article about five or six times, and have already made a mental note of any typos I can find, so it is starting to get pretty boring.
I wonder if I will be trapped here forever. Maybe no one will ever even read this paper. Maybe I will meet the same fate as so many other PioLogs before me, abandoned in a puddle in a parking lot or picked up out of obligation and later recycled without ever being read.
All I can do is keep up my hope that you, dear reader, will see this, and free me from my newsprint prison.