In the dimly lit Student Activities room sits a legend. No, not a senior editor. Not the ghost of deadline stress past. The Layout Table, a quietly judgmental witness to every late-night deadline crisis and last-minute headline change. Below, the table speaks out about the horrors it has witnessed from The Chariot. 

Q: What exactly is your job?
LT: I am the backbone of this newspaper and the spine is cracking. I hold the weight of over caffeinated teens and their collective mental instability. While they scream about due dates like they’re in a writing deathmatch, I’m out here supporting laptops, elbows, and the shattered remains of their sleep schedules. I’m not a table, I’m a lifestyle.

Q: Would you say you feel respected by the staff?
LT: Respected? Babe, I’m treated like an emotional support animal with no boundaries. They slap down their coffees, existential crises, and three-week-old drafts like I don’t have feelings. Someone cried on me over a misplaced caption and wiped their tears with the old layouts of the Sports page. And cleaning? Forget it. I’m basically a biohazard. There’s a cheese puff fossilized into my corner. I think it has a name.

Q: Any thoughts on the students who work on you?
LT: Oh, the gremlins? Yeah, they’re a breed. One minute it’s “this needs more space” and the next they’re screaming about headers like it’s a matter of national security. I’ve witnessed full-blown debates over an Oxford comma. I’ve seen friendships fracture over whether one editor talks more than the other. Half of them are crying, the other half are covered in Dorito dust. It’s like watching a war play out in 12-point font.

Q: Do you ever get a break?
LT: The only break I get is emotional breakdowns on top of me. One of my legs is literally a stack of outdated yearbooks. I’m more held together by hope and a single strip of duct tape than any actual hardware. Every time someone says “we’ll clean up after,” I die a little inside. There’s a chip bag on me right now that’s been here since the last lunar cycle.

Q: Any final advice for layout newcomers?
LT: Write your articles like your life depends on it, because it does. Respect the gridlines. Don’t treat me like your therapist. And stop falling asleep on me mid-layout. I may be flat, but I deserve boundaries. And disinfectant wipes.

After spending just a few minutes in conversation with the Layout Table, one thing becomes painfully clear: it has seen too much. Tear stains and emotional damage aside, this surface holds the soul of The Chariot, and maybe a few crumbs of pop tarts past. It’s not just a table. It’s a martyr. A silent witness to every crash-out, crisis and caffeinated triumph. So next time you enter the layout room, maybe give the table a little pat. Or at the very least, don’t spill on it.