What's in your fridge?
The contents of my refrigerator combine an odd selection of communally store-bought food and old take-out.
The exterior of the fridge is adorned with a scuba diver magnet and an incomplete magnetized alphabet.
This alphabet has provided hours of giggling entertainment for myself as well as others who pass through our kitchen.
At present the word "bodgeity," which, according to the third edition of "The New American Webster Handy College Dictionary," has no meaning, has mysteriously found its way onto the machine.
Once inside the humming beast there is nothing but carnage.
My refrigerator is where food goes to die.
Carcasses of forgotten lettuce and half-eaten sandwiches cry in the corner from neglect.
I continually buy turkey and eggs and neither eat the turkey nor cook and consume the eggs.
This leads to the two and half dozen rotting eggs on our back porch, which, I am assuming, have fled from the kitchen on their own accord to volunteer as weapons for the next home football game.
There is some gelatinous substance that has found its way to the bottom shelf, which causes myself and my roommates to avoid putting our food there at all costs.
Perhaps it is the possibility of cross-contamination with the goo, perhaps it is because none of us want to bend over that far.
Whatever the reason, the silent competition for the top shelf is at hand.
I lived in this house two years ago and then studied abroad last year. I am fairly sure there is a stick of butter and a jar of salsa that have been hiding out since May 2002.
I have come to think, for quite some time now, that the food actually emigrates from other refrigerators around town into mine.
Food refugees from across Fort Sanders come to my house because they know their life expectancy is substantially longer in my humble abode.
I am an advocate for food's rights.
Long live the food.

-Rosemary Nottoli is a senior in journalism. She can be reached at rnottoli@utk.edu.