Camel or Horse?

I passed this sub-subdivision's logo the other day and wondered: if it has that name, then why does it have a picture of a horse?

No Hot Water

There’s this girl in one of my classes who reminds me of cold water, so I call her Cold Water Girl. Before showering, especially in older homes, the water first comes out cold. You must wait despite the fact that, you’re toes are little icicles, your body is covered in uncomfortable and unmentionable filth, or you’re late to a post shower appointment. This is mostly unavoidable: you can do something else in the meantime, but there is still the wait.

Cold Water Girl believes she is just a little bit superior. I tell you now, she is a mere critic. In class discussions about a student’s work, we speak about these things and in this order: general things, good things, and bad things. After the discussion flows to the next part, there is no return. Cold Water Girl is always the first to give a negative comment. She’s quite jumpy to give an intellectually delicious morsel of advice, and because of these, we often go into that part of the discussion a little early. I like to boost the student’s moral because we have a rather negatively inclined class. There is no shortage of advice, but especially when Cold Water Girl is there, and she always is, perhaps just so she can strip off any good points a banana peel. One student will compliment this, and another student will compliment that, but then Cold Water Girl says that actually, she doesn’t really like those things.

When a negative thought has finished brewing, Cold Water Girl’s hand raises patiently above an impatient mind until called on. When finally called on to speak, she pauses, and does so vocally: “Um.” This is supposed to soften the impact of her cold water upon her victim’s soft flesh. Cold Water Girl hides behind words of flowers and sugar, but inside those flowery words are angry bees. Not all that oozes from her mouth is 24 karat mucus: there are signs of life deep within the slime. However, the majority should be carefully wiped up with a tissue and dropped into the garbage can. The poop that finally bursts the baby’s diaper is when the professor agrees with her. It also encourages Cold Water Girl to say more, which we all need like I need days of constant beeping because my housemates to forget to turn off their alarm clocks when they leave for the weekends, which they did again.

I don’t mind when my work is critiqued. There are enough good things, and I can deal with any comments. She doesn’t need to be so negative, though. Cold Water Girl’s work is no better than anybody else’s. When critiquing her work, I ensure she is returned the favors. She gives a fake smile, and I give a real smile, because inside, part of her is dying.

The Splaat! vs. the Scarf

Welcome Listeners, as we join another episode of The Adventures of the Splaat! Now, our hero, the Splaat!, was walking down the campus. Oh, look, our hero has joined us here in the studio. Hello, the Splaat!

Hello… [Silence]

Truly a man of many words. Our hero will be able to give us the details as we tell his amazing account. As we were saying before, the Splaat! was walking through campus.

Ah, actually, I like to think it was through a dangerous world where anything could happen at anytime.

Okay, our hero was walking through the dangerous campus where somebody might accidentally drop their book at anytime! How absolutely frightening!

Hey, shut up! It’s pretty scary out there. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.

Aren’t they all your fellow university students?

They’re…shut up!

And so our hero (our brave, brave hero!) ventured onwards. What evil doings could be going on? What adventures might our hero run into? Finally our hero came to his destined building. Tell us, the Splaat!, was it ominous?

Oh, it was ominous like hell!

Our courageous hero went into the ominous building. All he had with him was his fluffy coa, and his big backpack full of books.

Hey, you don’t have to tell them what a nerd I looked like. I actually look pretty cool.

Our nerdy hero walked into the ominous building, but nothing could prepare him for what he saw next.

Ah, what did I see next?

It was [dramatic pause] the Scarf!

Oh, yeah. Him.

The Scarf was one of the Splaat!’s all time worst enemies.

That rat-bastard!

The Scarf stood coolly. His smile sparkled like that of a Takahashi character. His women surrounded him like dogs begging for a slab of meat. His dress style was nothing less than magnificent. To top it all off, he wore, untied around his neck, a scarf! What bad times must exist in the world when somebody would be arrogant enough as to wear a scarf when it isn’t cold enough out! It’s like people who wear sunglasses at night. Our hero was utterly blown away by his appearance.

Well, I wasn’t blown away. A lesser person might have crumbled, though.

Our hero was devastated. The Scarf’s view was enough to blind him. The Splaat! could do nothing, but block his eyes with his arm. His powers were drained, and he was forced to his knees at the bidding of the Scarf.

I’ll admit that the scarf was annoying, but I was still standing.

And now it’s time for a commercial break.

What?! A commercial break right in the middle of my story?

Hey, who’s going to pay for this air time? Do you have any money?

[Silence]

And now for a commercial break!

La la la, dokudami cha! La la la, dokudami cha! Made with real barley, oolong tea, dokudami, and senna tea. It may look like the ground in the forest, but the Splaat! likes to put it in a cup of boiling water and drink it. Some say it’s where he gets his special powers. Some say he’ll die from drinking it. Just a pinch of it will make a strong cup all the way to it’s last infusion. Dokudami cha: the drink of the Splaat! It’s too inconvenient to go to the forest. Buy some today!

And now we return to The Adventures of the Splaat! where we are joined with the Splaat! himself. We continue with our story already underway. The Scarf approached our hero, our brave, brave hero. The stench of cologne was thick in the air.

It was thicker than my toothpaste.

The Scarf smiled, letting his Takahashi sparkle come into view. The Splaat! had no idea what to do. The Scarf’s lips began to open. Words came out which scared the Splaat! to the bone. The Scarf said, “Hey, Buddy! You’re in my class aren’t you?” He gave another smile. The Splaat! was frozen with horror. He had no choice but to flee from the scene. He scurried as fast as he could around the corner where he could not be scene.

You make it sound much worse than it really was. Tell them about how I came back and conquered my enemy.

The Splaat! was completely humiliated and defeated. He crumbled to the floor.

No, I came back and was awesome. I showed him my moves. My whole class got to see my moves.

Actually, the class got to see some movies. The Splaat! sat in the corner in the darkness while the Scarf triumphantly sat with his women.

You know, this story really has no plot. What's the point of telling it?

Oh, don’t be such a sorry hero. Go drink some stick water.

Hey, that stuff is good.

We now come to the end of our show.

Hey, I want to tell the real story. I was all kicking and fighting and dangerous.

But tune in next time…

Hey, I’m telling the story of how I won.

Tune in next time to The Adventures of the Splaat!

I Think It May Have Finally Stopped

Beep beep beep. I woke up this morning to an alarm clock. It wasn’t my alarm clock, though. It belonged to one of the girls I live with. I know that none of them came home last night, or they would have turned off the alarm. It just kept going on and on. Beep beep beep. I was sleeping soundly, as people try to do on free days. It wasn’t early for a weekday, but it was early for a weekend. At first I thought it was my own alarm that I forgot to turn off, but it was faint and sounded farther away. Beep beep beep. There wasn’t anything I could do about it, though. If the girls weren’t home, I wasn’t going to break into their rooms to throw the clock out the window--although I was thinking about it. I also thought to cut off the power, but didn’t know if it would work and didn’t want to cause any electrical accidents--or have to buy a new washer. Beep beep beep. After thinking about how I might shut off the clock, and after wondering where they might be, and who they might be with, and what they might be doing, I decided to just get up and listen to some music. I figured if they weren’t home, I could listen to my music as loudly as I wanted. Beep beep beep. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried it, but listening to music loudly in the morning sounds much different. It has to be when you’re a little sleepy, but have lots of free time. It has to be silent outside and blue light must be coming in through the windows. Beep beep beep. I started off with some of my strange music. People who know me well, know I listen to strange music, but I like it, and most people admit that it’s not that bad. Some of it they really like. Gradually I made it back to the more normal music. My speakers were so loud the walls were shaking, which is hard to do, since my bass speaker broke. Beep beep beep. I listen to music often, but I don’t always get a chance to really sit down and just plain listen to it. It was nice. It’s when you see what’s really special about music. The alarm clock has rhythm, but I don’t like its music. Beep beep beep.

Bad Luck, Good Luck

I broke one of my mugs. [See the above picture.] It’s glass so maybe it’s not a mug, but it has the same thickness as one. I was careless with hot water. There was not a shattering as is common, but only a pop. A large chunk simply flew off. Except for liquid and sharp edges, the break up was quite harmless. This saddened me, because the cup was a present, as are many of my cups. So many seem to break. I still have more gift mugs, however, so not all is lost. To make myself better, I decided to bike to the store to get some nice tea. I needed to go out anyway because I had some mail to drop off on the way, which I forgot to do. The store is a long journey up a steep hill. People say going up in the world is a good thing, but it isn’t when you have to bike up a hill. Upon arrival, the lights were off, and the place looked closed. Somebody came out the door, though, so I went in. According to the hours, they had just closed, but there was a line of people waiting to pay for their items. I took the time to look for what I needed. The tea I wanted had to be green and not in tea bags. It’s very difficult to find out here. I was going to give up hope, but after much searching, I dug through boxes and bags and jars to finally find some. There were a few types, and I chose some Dragon Well tea, which if you don’t know, is a pretty good type. [See the side picture.] There was still a line, and looking at my watch, I knew that I would be late to post my mail. I would have to wait until after the weekend was over. I, the last customer, bought the tea. On my way home, I passed a mailbox, and just as I was getting there, the mail truck arrived too. The postwoman accepted my mail, so I was able to get out on time. It didn’t matter that my cup was broken. My mail was out. I found my special tea. The whole way back was a swift and easy downhill ride.

Fun Things To Do at Work

A lot of you have been having tough times at work, so I did some thinking and made a list of things you can do to pass the long hours.

In a colleague’s diary, write in 10am: "See how I look in tights." Reply to everything someone says with, “That’s what you think.” Finish all your sentences with, “in accordance to the prophesy.” Carry your keyboard over to your colleague and ask "You wanna trade?" Repeat the following conversation 10 times to the same person: "Do you hear that?" "What?" "Never mind, it's gone now." Come to work in army fatigues and when asked why, say, "I can't talk about it." Posing as a maitre d', call a colleague, and say he/she has won a lunch for four at a local restaurant; let him/her go. Send an e-mail to everybody that says, “If you need me, I’ll be in the bathroom,” update this message often. Whenever somebody says something, question them by saying, “Come on! Come on!” Speak with an accent (French, German, Pirate, Porky Pig, etc.) during a very important conference call. Find the vacuum and start vacuuming around your desk. Carry a football with you, and whenever you walk into a room, yell, “Touchdown!” Whenever somebody says something, say, “Now you’re thinking outside the box!” Ask clients what sex they are. Hang a two-foot long piece of toilet roll from the back of your pants, and act genuinely surprised when someone points it out. When somebody comes to talk to you, freeze like a statue in a funny pose until they go away. Run one lap around the office at top speed. Whenever a co-worker sneezes, yell, “Shut up!” and if they sneeze a second time, yell, “I said, ‘Shut up!’” and if they sneeze a third time, run out of the room yelling, “Nobody ever listens to me!” Bring stuffed animals to work, and have them go on a parade through the office; whenever somebody comes by yell, “Hey, watch out, there’s a parade coming through!” Groan out loud in the bathroom cubicle (at least one person must be in the bathroom). Ignore the first five people who say “good morning” to you. Name all your pens and insist that you can’t work unless they’re all present. Have your co-workers address you by your wrestling name, Rock Hard. Send all e-mail in the form of a Haiku. Phone someone in the office you barely know, leave your name, and say, "Just called to say I can't talk right now. Bye." While talking to somebody, start breathing really heavily. When you’re walking, make airplane noises. To signal the end of a conversation, clamp your hands over your ears and grimace. When someone hands you a piece of paper, finger it, and whisper huskily, "Mmm, that feels sooo good!" Leave your zipper open for one hour; if anyone points it out, say, "Sorry, I really prefer it this way." Walk sideways to the photocopier. While riding an elevator, gasp dramatically every time the doors open. Say to your boss, "I like your style," and shoot him/her with double-barreled fingers. For one hour, don’t walk; just hop. Shake somebody’s hand when you greet them for the day, and keep shaking it for as long as you can. Tell everybody you accidentally glued your hands in your pockets; go about the rest of the day without using your hands. Lie like a speed bump on the ground and make everybody step over you; make bumping sound effects. Go up to a client or co-worker, give them a big hug, and say very slowly, “I have missed you so much.” Bring a toy oven to work, and accuse everybody of stealing your cookies. In the middle of a meeting, yell out, “Yahtzee!” or “Ma Zhong!” Babble incoherently at a fellow employee; then ask, "Did you get all that? I don't want to have to repeat it." Page yourself over the intercom (do not disguise your voice). Kneel in front of the water cooler, and drink directly from the nozzle (there must be somebody else within sight). Shout random numbers while someone is counting. Walk around like a spy for one hour. Gallop like a horse wherever you go for one hour. At the end of a meeting, suggest that, for once, it would be nice to conclude with the singing of the national anthem (even better if you actually launch into it yourself). Walk into a very busy person's office, and while they watch you with growing irritation, turn the light switch on/off 10 times. For an hour, refer to everyone you speak to as 'Bob'. Announce to everyone in a meeting that you "really have to go do number two". After every sentence, say “Mon” in a really bad Jamaican accent, as in, "The report's on your desk, Mon," and keep this up for one hour. While an office mate is out, move his/her chair into the elevator. In a meeting or crowded situation, slap your forehead repeatedly and mutter, "Shut up, damn it, all of you just shut up!" At lunchtime, get down on your knees and announce "As God is my witness, I'll never go hungry again!" Go rollerblading around the floor throwing sweets. Keep singing, “Dui Mian de Nu Hai Kan Guo Lai” over and over at the top of your voice.

Everybody Try This

All you need are your arms. Put them straight out in front of you with your palms facing upward. Notice that at the elbow, your arms either curve slightly inwards or outwards. Which way do your arms bend? Maybe they don't bend at all.

Now, while you’re looking at your arms, also try this. Actually, just look at your hands. Straighten out your fingers, but keep them together. Notice that your index finger and ring finger are different lengths. Which fingers are longer for you? Do they all go out just as far?

Supposedly for both of these, each gender will have the opposite characteristic. Can you figure out which characteristics go with which gender, or are you an exception? See what other people say.

Sequel to “Unclean”

Well, I’m delighted to announce that we have a new washer--a happy, spinning washer--which I am using at this very moment. [See photo] It just appeared one day, as if it fell from the sky. Maybe that’s what broke our last washer. I called my landlord, but the girls who live in my house had already made this necessary call. The girls do a lot of laundry—so much that our machine almost never stops. The motor was broken, and it was cheaper to buy a new washer than to fix the old one. After we got this new one, the girls in front told me the old one would break down on them a lot. I’m glad it wasn’t my fault the thing broke. Although it only broke down on me once, my cycle of laundry was the final blow. Take that, you detergent slurping fiend! Usually new washers have different cycles for different types of fabric, but this one also has different cycles for different colors. We’ll see how clean my clothes get. They’d better be dazzling!

Kinetic Aggravation

It happens every single time. I’ll even walk, just to avoid this. When I’m venturing out at the beginning of each sunny (or more likely cloudy, rainy, or snowy) day, I hop on my trusty (rusty) bike, and set off with high optimism (like a dog going to the veterinarian’s office to be neutered). I have to yank my bike out of my house (which is easier than cramming it back into the house), past a wooden door and past the always annoying screen one, until it’s finally outside and the doors are locked (and hopefully I have all my things with me—most importantly my key). If I had an extra arm, this job would not be quite so bad. At that time in the morning, it’s always too cold, too hot, too bright, too dark, too wet, too snowy, too muddy, or too something. When I start to push on the pedals, I notice that I’m actually much more tired than I thought. I’m also much more aggravated. Tired people get aggravated easily. I get angry at the blade of grass that’s stuck to my tire: the little piece of green flashing as the wheel rotates. I might even stop my bike to peal it off and tear it in two—just show that dumb blade of grass. Then, just as I’m building up my momentum, I get to the corner—oh, that corner.

A deadly alley to pull out of-->

(Actually, this is not my alley--
it's Patches's.)

Before we pass the corner, I need to pause and make a note about this: To those of you who do not have to bike anywhere each day—even if you go biking often—let me tell remind you that momentum is a very important thing when you’re biking. It’s just about everything. Also: it doesn’t get more important the faster you go; it gets important the angrier you get. Angry people (or rather, angry muscles) can be very strong, but very unwilling to cooperate and do difficult work. If they actually do the work, then they pout and throw a fit. When you’re using your bike as transportation, and not just leisure, then rotating those pedals becomes less fun with each turn. You start to notice every single one.

So, I’m just getting to the corner. It’s a common, everyday street corner. I get to the end of the street, and I turn right. It should not be a big deal—oh, but it is. It’s a pain because this is just as I have worked up enough momentum to get me to this horrid corner. Due to the speed at which I am usually going, I like to take a nice, wide turn. If I take a tight turn, then that means all my momentum will be lost, and my already tired and pissed off muscles will have to start up all over again. I try to be nice to my muscles. They may not win any competitions (except against small babies—but not those really strong babies: they scare me), but they help me out sometimes. So, ideally, I would lean my bike over and form a happy, easy arc around the corner, and go on my cheerful way.

This is not that first corner, but it's a deadly one I must pass many mornings.-->

Ideally I would do this; but I promise you: each and every time I go to make this turn, there is a car going down the street right at the exact time. This means I do not have time to make my graceful curve. I’m forced into squeezing the breaks, bending to the left slowly, only to have to regain lost momentum. No amount of specialized nutrition bars (specialized for either gender) will cheer up thigh muscles one and two. It’s pretty much set that they’re going to be grumpy for the whole morning, and I have to deal with them.

If this were a busy road, then I would just know that I am going to have to make the turn each time. It’s not a busy road, though. Very few cars come down it, and when I look before I turn each morning, I can see that there are no other cars in front or behind. It’s just the one blasted car, as if the devil waits for me to leave and puts one there, and perhaps he has nothing better to do than to slow me down each morning. So, each time I go to the road, I optimistically (remember how I used to be optimistic) turn with high expectations of floating around to the next street.

I’ve tried beginning my curve sooner so that by the time I get to the street, I’ll be mostly facing in the same direction. It doesn’t work for a few reasons. The main reason is that when I am building up precious momentum, it is not a good time to be turning. Secondly, there are often too many things in the way. Thirdly, even if I’m mostly turned, I’m still not turned enough so that I don’t have to slow down. Lastly, I’m not really thinking about a car coming because of my stupid optimism.

It’s enough that I have to stop at other times when cars decide to turn, ignore me, and turn right in front of me. It’s enough that I have to stop for all the other obstacles that one passes when biking. I’d like, though, to not have to disappoint my optimistic thigh muscles right from the start. I dream of a morning when there is no car there. I have been dreaming for many, many mornings: I hardly even need to turn. I just drift around, and make my way back to the correct side of the road whenever I please. What a glorious morning!

I Forget What My Bed Looks Like

My February curse continues. I might as well talk about my week where nothing happened except homework. I have to say that today was largely the same thing. I haven’t been eating or sleeping much. I just take quick breaks here and there too make sure I’m not killing myself quite so quickly. There’s still so much more to do, and the pile keeps getting higher. I hope the rest of my weeks aren't like this.

One class decided to give three tests in five consecutive school days.

In another class, I have a poetry assignment over a poet. The poet I’ll do mine on isn’t a poet who speaks English; or rather, spoke, since he’s long dead now. If you ever want to kill your brain, go to the library and for a few hours, study poetry in a language you don’t understand. You can’t read the words. You can’t understand them. You can’t understand their deeper meaning. You can’t understand the context. You can’t understand the culture. You can’t understand the poet. You can’t read the poem. You can’t hear what it sounds like. All you can do is cry, but you don’t even have the right poem to properly express your sadness.

In another of my classes, we had a small presentation to make where few people go to the front of the room and talk about what they need to, and then sit down. It’s not a huge deal, and there isn’t a lot of preparation. Students marched up, spoke, and marched back. This happened for a few groups. Then, when my group went up to the front of the room, we had a small plan of what we were going to each say. The first girl spoke, and I suppose she did a god enough job. Then it was my turn to speak, and I had a pretty good idea of what to say, but another girl went of turn. This noodle brain decided to divert from the plan and instead talk about what I was going to say. She even used a few of the specific points and examples that I was going to cover. She took what little preparation I had and shot it in the leg until it crawled out of the room leaving only a bloody trail behind it. I silently groaned. The plan had been very clear. We each took a section of the overall topic and were going to go from there. I didn’t matter, though. I was going to have to talk after her, so I had to, in my head, very quickly compose something original to talk about. Meanwhile the professor was staring at us, ready to question anything that he thought was inaccurate or insufficient.

I think I did a fairly good job. I went to the remote corners of my mind and opened up shoeboxes of papers that I haven’t seen in years. I spit out filth for a good few minutes. The eyes of the class stared at me, and I couldn’t tell if it was boredom or shock. I just kept puffing until I ran out of steam. I made some concluding sentences, and that was it. I don’t think the professor agreed with all I had to say, but given the circumstance, I thought I did a pretty good job--especially since I would never have a chance to explain what happened. Maybe I’ll have a chance to get even some day--bwa ha ha ha ha--but probably not.

Valentine’s Day Curse

Please allow me to say that this week was one of those weeks where you look at your bed or couch and don’t recognize it. All you recognize is your desk lamp, your pencil, or maybe your computer screen. All I recognize are the endless pages in books. Each word is a soldier coming to fight me. I can take them on one by one, even the most difficult ones; anybody can with the dictionary weapon. The word army is very big, though. It seems so when there is more than you’re able and less than you’d like to read.

So let me roar about my Valentine’s Day, not that I have that much to say about the actual day. I just feel like I should add in my two cents. Normally, I do not specifically remember Valentine’s Day. I just see it on the calendar or see red being sold in a shop, and think: oh yeah, I remember that holiday. Are they still doing that? I usually think of bunch of friends born near Valentine’s Day, including on the day itself. I’m mostly concerned with all the work I have to do on the day. I don’t hate Valentine’s Day. What I really think about on this day is the fact that traditionally for me, crap starts to happen. It’s like a curse: each year has its menstruation of very bad things and uses me to block the flow.

Definition of the Valentine’s Day Curse: Maybe it’s not actually Valentine’s Day, but it’s some day in February. If you were to graph out my annual happiness, it would be kind of like graphing the temperatures for each day, except that you would push everything back a month or more. February is bad and the late summer is the best. This is how it works: From Valentine’s Day, or some day nearby, to the end of the month, the twelve plagues of the Bible fall down on me. There are locusts and earthquakes. There is crying and gnashing of teeth. Then, in the next month, no new crap happens, but you still have to lie in what the last few weeks puked up. The following month is the recovery period, when the vomit gets cleaned up, and by the end of spring, things are on their way up. I don’t think it has anything to do with the temperature either, although it may seem to. I think it has more to do with where it falls within the school year. Who knows, though? Curses don’t always have to care about things like that.

I’ve gone over many years, and have recalled the bad things that have happened in this half month. It’s not self inflicting, because I don’t always remember it. All of a sudden the days are Hell, or would be if they were warm enough, and I look at the date to find out that the curse has activated itself. It’s the shortest month, but always seems the longest, and I’m always waiting for the first of the next month. Last school year, I escaped this deadly pattern. The bad times came in the late fall, and I slid through the following February. This year, or at least this week, it’s not looking good. I suppose things aren’t that bad yet, but I’ve still got half the month left for bad things to happen. You’d be surprised how many demons can fly up your left nostril in just two weeks. Sometimes, it’s nothing more than finding out your favorite whatever is actually something you don’t like all that much—you just thought you did. So now you have to deal with the fact that you no longer have this favorite thing, and you must also deal with the fact that this stupid thing has been your favorite for so long. I’m not talking about people as you might think. Let’s include anything else that you might have a favorite of—or even a least hated of.

I’ll go back to the actual day, now. I had seen stores with pink candy and cards up to two months ago, but in my first class of the day, there was no sign of the holiday. Then in my second class, right in the middle, there was a knock on the door. Some girl came prancing in and delivering flowers, although there was only one for our room. The rose went to this girl in the class who wears lots of make up. A minute later the delivery girl brought in the card that went with the flower. The receiver of the flower was not an especially attractive girl.

Definition of Not-An-Especially-Attractive-Girl: It seems like she’d be really beautiful except for one thing, but you can’t exactly say what it is. She dresses in fancy clothes all the time to make up for this slight lack, but maybe it’s to match her perception of herself. She says she went to a prep school. Girls who think they are good looking tend to either be very arrogant because they know they can be, or are very friendly because the other gender must consciously or subconsciously give them lots of good attention. She’s friendly enough, but you can see in her manner that she thinks she’s quite something. As for her brain: she’s a few fries short of a Happy Meal. Once the teacher asked her a question about something she had been talking about for five minutes. She didn’t even know what the question was. If she ever asks me to help her in the class, I like to take a baseball bat and smack her in the back of the head. She politely responds, “Thanks.”

There was a mild amount of chatter and excitement in the class over the flower. It’s a class where the students know each other relatively well, but not enough to account for all the chatter. The teacher did not seem to mind this interruption in class and started talking about what various colors and numbers of flowers mean and asking questions from the students. As we discussed this very interesting topic, we all munched on our Valentine’s Day cookies that some of the students had been nice enough to buy for the entire class. Actually, I wasn’t munching. They didn’t buy enough, and when the cookie bag got to me, I knew it was going to be one of those Februaries where I’m always one cookie short of a bag. I should have remembered the curse was coming when my washer broke, but like I said, I don’t always remember that it’s coming.

Then for the rest of the day, there wasn’t much of the holiday. I heard that one guy who took his girlfriend to Paris for a long weekend. He’s done that before too. If I had that kind of money, I’d probably have spent it on one of those giant pointing hands made out of foam. I’m kidding; I’m kidding. I hope that guy’s girlfriend doesn’t demand those sorts of things. The richest man in the world would soon empty his bank account with a girlfriend like that. That’s way too much for such a small holiday. For those of you who don’t know, Valentine’s Day didn’t start out as it is. You may have suspected this. It started out as a day when this guy named Valentine would give gifts to poor children (he sounds like Santa Claus). I think that’s what the story is. You can do an Internet search to really find out. After Valentine disappeared from the scene, stores capitalized on the idea and turned it into what we have now. I’m not going to make some big statement about society here. I’m just passing on the trivia.

Before I stop here, I’ll say that one good thing did happen on Valentine’s Day. I think it just might have even had something to do with Valentine’s Day too. I’m not going to say anything more, though. Maybe that would ruin it.

Theme Music to a Rainy Day

I set an alarm on my computer today. Instead of the usual beeping, I set it to play a song. It was just a short, light hearted, classical piece. Before the alarm went off, I was in another room reading a book. At the right time, the music started, and I looked up. At the same time, my cat happened to trot into the room. It was like my cat had theme music. It would be neat if she did. Whenever she would go anywhere, you would hear: “Dum dum dum. It’s the kitty cat. Dum dum dum. It’s the kitty cat.” When she would eat, you would hear, “Cat food; I’ve got my cat food now: cat food time for me.” If somebody would distract her, then all of a sudden the music would stop.

If I had theme music, then when I woke up today, you would have heard the spring music you hear in cartoons when all the animals are running through the forest. Then when I looked to see what homework I had to do for the day, you would have heard horror movie music. Then as I was working on homework, you would have heard the long notes of the music that plays when people are crawling through the desert or having a nightmare. Then it was lunch time. I went to get a salad, but I saw that it had just expired. Then you would have heard the song that is played when somebody dies in a movie like Taps, played on a lonely trumpet. I thought that the salad couldn’t be that bad since it only expired a few days ago. I put it in a bowl and put a forkful into my mouth: game over melody.

Prequel to "Prequel to 'Prequel to "Unclean"'"

"Cats and Tea"
By: Anonymous

My poppet, pray stop it and listen to me,
Remember this lesson off pat!
For Cats don't improve on the flavour of Tea
Nor Tea on the temper of Cat.

Try cream if your aim is to please the cat's purr,
Try water to wash away bugs;
Your teapot is valued; please take it away
And aim, not at Mogs, but at Mugs.

Prequel to "Prequel to 'Unclean'"

I was drinking tea this morning, and my cat kept crying. I gave her food; I gave her water; I made sure that her litter box was okay; I pet her; I itched her. She wasn’t crying as if she were in pain; it was her complaining cry, as if she wanted to go outside. I don’t let her outside, though, and she’s never asked to go out before. I didn’t know what she wanted. Then I had an idea: I thought maybe some tea would calm her down. I wondered if cats could drink tea, and decided that it was probably okay if it was weak green tea. I put my used teabag in her bowl of water for a minute. She drank it and stopped crying. I guess cats do like tea. I hope it isn’t too unhealthy for them. Maybe it's good for them.

Prequel to "Unclean"

Well, my cat was throwing up this afternoon. In another room, I started hearing this noise that sounded like a car trying to start up. I went to see, and there was my cat, and there was her old food. It wasn’t just anywhere. She had to puke on the one place on the floor where I had some clothing. I had no choice but to do some laundry afterwards. I carried my clothes carefully so that the puke wouldn’t slip onto the floor, and tossed them into the washer. I wondered if cat puke might hurt the washer, but figured it would be fine. After I turned the washer on, I went back to clean the carpet, just in case. I used lots of soap and a spray. My cat didn’t seem sick at all. She just seemed happy, almost as if she were laughing at me.

Unclean

It’s always in the last place you look that you find the thing you were looking for. Logic says so. Tonight, I found out that it’s also when your clothes are in the washer that you find out that it’s broken.

Actually, the first load was fine, but the second decided not to drain. There was just a washer full of stubborn water. I had to fish out soaking wet, heavy clothes and toss them quickly into the dryer where they had to dry for extra long, even after squeezing as much water out of my clothes as possible. They had rinsed once already, so were clean enough. However, even long after I fixed the problem of wet clothing, there was still the problem of all the water that wasn’t going anywhere. I tried everything short of pulling the washer out from the wall and opening it up. The cycle wouldn’t start up again, and the drain wouldn’t open up. It just made a humming noise, and I thought it sounded like it was just teasing me. All I managed to do was add more water into the already full basin.

I was feeling kind of bad because I somehow broke the washer, even if I didn’t think I did anything wrong. Then a friend, of the girls who live in front, passed me and saw me checking to see if my clothes in the dryer were still damp. She said that she thought the dryer had been broken. I told her that it was actually the washer. It was then that I realized the washer had been broken before I tried to do laundry, but nobody bothered to tell me. It cleared my conscience. Now nobody is going to be doing laundry for a little while. At least I got my last load done. The girls who live in front should be fine, though. From day to day, I see plenty of underwear in the laundry room, and sometimes have to move it myself. At least they aren’t disgusting guys, although maybe they will be messier now that the washer doesn’t work.

I, the Barber

To make sure hairs are all trimmed evenly
on clippers that I grip so carefully
my father tilts his head to push gently.

She needs to itch with such ferocity
that on my fingernails held out firmly
my cat's head tilts to push delightfully.

Anticlimactic Week

Just when it seems like something is going to happen, nothing does. It's kind of like celebrating the New Year, since everybody seems to be talking about that lately. There’s a whole countdown, and then it’s the next year, and that’s it. There might be celebrating, but it still seems like not a lot happened at the end of the countdown. You expect there to be a big explosion or for money to fall from the sky. Perhaps a giant cat will walk down the street handing out chocolate to all the children. Nothing happens, though. First you’re here; then you’re there. That’s it.

I was reading a story in one of my classes about a story of a man who is about to be executed. Something goes wrong, though and he makes up a daring escape which takes up most of the story. Just as he is about to get home, though, he figures out everything is in his head. Nothing went wrong, and he didn’t really escape. The whole story took place in his mind in the few seconds before he is killed. He dies, and the story is over. Oh, it was a dream. That’s it. I suppose the ending was fairly surprising because of how it was written, but there was a lot of build up and nothing happened.

I had waited for a few days to go the mysterious meeting I was told to go to by a card in the mail. It didn’t say what it was for, it just said to come for possible prizes. I assumed they, whoever they were, were going to try to get me to sign up for something that would result in me losing money. I wanted to find out exactly how they were going to go about getting their hands in my pockets. I think they would have done a good job. Then my father called and said he was going to visit at the same time as the mysterious meeting would have been, so I missed it. I’m really curious now as to what they were going to do. Perhaps they were aliens and wanted to do experiments on us. I’d like to have superpowers as long as it didn’t mean the aliens had to stick anything strange in me, or rather, stick anything into me in strange places.

One of my teachers said that we were going to have a quiz. Everybody was really worried about it and tried to cram in some last minute studying. The classroom looked like a fluster of squawking chickens with a wolf in the middle. Then we just never had the quiz. The teacher didn’t say anything about it. We simply never had the quiz. Maybe the teacher just wanted us to study, maybe the teacher just forgot, and maybe the teacher didn’t really mean that we were going to have a quiz. Nobody knows, and nobody is going to ask—just in case the teacher remembers and decides to give the quiz after all.

I was running a little late to a first class of the day, or rather I was biking late. It’s a class you can’t be late to get to because we watch movies that we will have to write papers about, and the movies start right away because there is barely enough time to watch them. Melted snow from my tires gave me freckles. My legs were burning. I jumped off my bike, locked it, and scurried to my room like my cat does when it’s time to eat. I was going to get there just on time, and then I found out that we would be starting late anyway because the one of the machines was broken.

I’ve been going through this long story now for a few weeks, and I’m just about to the end of it, but because of the previous pattern, I’m not going to expect much. Maybe I already got to the end, merely thought there would be more, and I just didn’t know it.

I Say, You Say, Essay

Some people go on game shows expecting to win big, only to embarrass themselves in front of family, friends, a whole studio audience, and millions of television viewers.

We had an essay exam a few days earlier, and when they were returned, the professor had me read my exam aloud to the whole class because he thought it was so well written that the other students would benefit from hearing it. It was not a great essay. If I were to show you, you would think nothing of it. Even if you knew the directions and what we had studied, you would probably say “good job” and roll your eyes. I hadn’t been completely sure how to prepare for the test, and I was kind of worried that what I wrote was not what the professor was looking for. Fortunately, he didn’t just stamp the word “crap” on my paper, or place the real thing in the place of the word.

I’ve never had a professor who had students read exams aloud. I didn’t really want to read my essay to everybody, but I was a deer stuck in the headlights of my teacher’s eyes. The notebook paper I had written on was in my hand, and my eyes were trying to focus on the scribbles I had scrambled to shake out of my pencil before the time limit was over. What should have been English looked more like Arabic, although not as nightmarish as traditional Chinese characters, in which case, I would have really had my zipper stuck.

Handwriting is supposed to be nice because the professor needs to read it along with many other essays in a short amount of time. They always complain about how their eyes get tired. My handwriting is usually clear, even if it’s not as nice as some people’s handwriting. Some people write as well as they type—and not just perfectly: it’s also fancy like the curly fonts that are so ornate you can’t really take them seriously. I’m not sure how anybody writes that well. My handwriting isn’t that nice, but I would say it’s still above average—especially for a guy’s handwriting. However, this is only true when I can take my time. I do some things pretty well because I take my time, but it takes me twice as long to do it as it would for somebody else. Essay exams do not allow me to take my time.

The first sentences went in my eyes, registered in my brain, and exited my mouth like honey. All went well as the class listened to their most honored student of the day in all his brilliance and sophistication. I tried to keep up this smooth reading, since that is how intelligent people read. If one can write, generally they can read too.

The next few sentences came out of my mouth like an orange flavored soy drink that has passed the expiration by over three years—and you don’t just spit that out, you throw it up. What had I written anyway? I needed the help of the Rosetta stone, and it was too long ago to remember what the words might have been. I had to move my fingers up to the lines so that I wouldn’t skip any, but if I had, I don’t think it would have mattered. I was trying to concentrate, but there were bunny rabbits jumping up and down inside my head. I just tried to repeat what the bunny rabbits were singing. I don’t know how many words I missed or read out of place.

Beads of sweat paraded down my neck. My fingers clenched the paper like a superhero’s clothing clings to its owner. I can’t tell you for sure if the students were looking at me or if they were really paying attention, but I’m sure they must have noticed when I said “The flu bladda bla-bla, bla hethallik!” And there went any possibility of me seeming like the admired classmate I might have been.

Well, maybe I can try to impress them with my supposed knowledge some other time.

A Happy Sunday in the Forest

I’m in the forest with all the little animals, all the cute little woodland creatures. We’re having a tea party. “Would you like some tea,” says a rabbit. “Yes, I would,” says a chipmunk. “Have some cookies,” a squirrel says to me, and I smack him good and hard. I use the back of my hand, and hit him right in the chest so that he and his stupid tray of cookies go flying back into the chestnut tree.

An owl gets really angry at me and decides to do something about it. While he’s pecking at me, some of the mice decide to help and bite me. Then I’ve got deer running into me and cats clawing at me. There’s a dog from somewhere who is just barking. I have no idea where the dog and cat came from.

We’re all wrestling about. We’re just this big bunch of animals. I’m getting scratched and bitten. I manage to take a few of the fur balls out. I grab a beaver by the neck and toss him into a bush. I fling a weasel into the river.

All is going pretty well, but then all of a sudden the skunk shows up and does his thing all over me. All the other little animals dash for it, leaving just me and the skunk. After I kick him a good distance, there’s nobody left but me. That’ll teach those bastards to mess with me.

I’m so happy I don’t even notice the smell. It is pretty bad, though, once I catch my breath. I jump into that river to scrub, but the smell is good and deep into my pores. Also, the scrubbing hurts the bites and scratches I have.

I decide I’m sorry. “Come back, little animals, come back! I’m sorry.” I scream at the top of my lungs. While I wait for them to show up, I get out and roll on the grass to dry myself. I still smell pretty bad, but I don’t care, and the little fuckers will have to just deal with it.

“Would you like some tea?” “Why yes I would, thank you for asking.” “How about some cookies.” “Why thank you.” “Do you want some milk.” “All right, that’s it!” I grab the gopher by the head, rip off some of his fur, and shoot him into the bear cub who was giving strawberries to his imaginary friend. I don’t really like his imaginary friend. His name is Binkers and he has sausages instead of wings. I once jabbed a stick into one of the sausages, and pulled off a piece to eat. The bear cub was pretty upset, but I think Binkers must have been even more upset.

Anyway, the strawberries go flying, and this time, it’s the fox that jumps on me first. I jab a teaspoon into his ear and yell, “Hey, now you have a teaspoon in your ear, asshole!”

I can’t remember if it’s the badger’s birthday today or not. They used to be singing, but now all the animals make their little growling noises, but it doesn’t sound very ferocious, and just sounds cute. I start laughing. I laugh so hard that my mouth starts to grow. I can't explain why. It becomes enormous as if it were made of silly putty. It becomes so big I can eat all the little animals in one bite. They taste awful, so after chewing them a few bites, I spit them back out, into the river. It’s just one clump of meat.

I kick over the teapot and all the other fancy things we had. I jump up on one of the tables and start dancing and singing until I get tired. Then I go home and go to sleep, and that’s when I realize this isn’t really a dream.

The moral of the story is that even though the snow may melt, springtime should be taken seriously.

"Do You Think I'm Ditsy?"

This entry is dedicated to anybody who knows what I’m talking about.

This girl asks me if I think she’s ditsy. I’m stuck sitting shotgun, and the person I know her through is in back. The car door has long since been slammed, and it might as well be locked. And her eyes are on mine, which are staring down the road. And I ain’t really sure how to answer this question.

It’s not one you can really answer, especially to chicks. Like the how-do-I-look question. Questions that you wish were rhetorical. No matter what you say, you’re in boiling water. People have died over such things. And you gotta watch how you say it too. The most diplomatically brilliant politician would break down under such pressure. You can’t pause when you answer the question. Like I did. I mean, what is ditsy really? I looked it up in the dictionary.

Definition of ditsy: eccentrically silly, giddy, or inane.

And I have to say that I wouldn’t use the word in describing this individual. Especially not within striking distance. I’m at least smart enough to know that. And maybe I’m so smart that this girl thinks I’m qualified to answer her question. Or maybe she doesn’t know if I am. Or maybe anybody is smarter than her. Maybe she’s really worried about being ditsy, or maybe she just cares about image to me or anybody else.

When I think of ditsy, I think of cheerleaders. Big hair, big pompoms, big shoulder pads, big breasts, big purses, big shopping bags, big boyfriends, big make up, and big mouths and phone bills. Little skirts, little care for anything, little cell phones, and little brains.

But I don’t think this is what she’s asking about. I know this girl who was surprised to find soybeans to be an ingredient in soy sauce. I know this girl who gave her TV to her boyfriend and later remarked that she had one that looked just like it. I think this is the type of thing she’s asking. If she’s like that type of girl.

And so I think to myself. Now I don’t like to consider myself as ditsy or in anyway unintelligent. I’ve had my share of embarrassing moments. And right now I’m feeling too unintelligent to even answer this question. And part of me says that this question can’t really be answered. And by now, even if I did answer the question, there’s been far too long of a pause. My brain is distracted by funny stories this question has reminded me of. And maybe if I laugh then I’ll be the ditsy one. And maybe that’s safer, but maybe it’s just dangerous. And maybe I should be ignoring all the details that don’t really matter.

And I’m thinking of all the things that have and could have lead up to this question. And of all the things that it will unleash. And it’s a really hot day for some reason. And I’m hungry and I’m kind of tired. And I think I have a headache now. And there’s this girl next to me. And this girl asks me if I think she’s ditsy. And I ain’t really sure how to answer this question.

And so if you really want to know the truth, that is, my gut feeling, with all technicalities and civilities set aside, getting to the true heart of the question, and answering without the same technicalities and civilities, then I’ll have to say that you don’t really need me to say anything further. Words aren't perfect. Bad questions get bad answers. In the end, it’s probably better to just laugh. As long as it’s funny, it needs no explanation.

(Leave a comment if you feel you must.)

Womankind's Triumph over Sleepiness

It must not have just been I that was busy last night. Everybody was coming to class with extra frizzy hair and purple under their eyes, and they were arriving long after our broken clock tower would have rung to start off the classes. Students just trying to stand up straight looked like seaweed swaying in an angry ocean. My body may have collapsed too like the melting snowmen (and snowwomen) all around campus, but I had my secret weapon. Upon even the slightest hint of a yawn, I could reach deep into my backpack to pull out a Power Bar: oh, yes, a Power Bar. Bow down to me, you eyelid wrestling fools, for I am your energetic god. Even well into the late hours of the class, the fires were burning deep within me.

Well actually, Dear Reader, I must admit to you a small secret, for it was not truly a Power Bar that I was consuming, though it was a bar, and in the same family as the above mentioned. In truth, it was a Luna Bar. Yes, heard right: I loosed a Luna Bar into my very masculine self. Now you may already know of what I speak, but in case you don’t, I shall explain.

Definition of Luna Bar: the blissfully good, whole nutrition bar for women that meets many of the nutritional requirements women need everyday to maintain active lifestyles.

Why did I have a Luna in my possession? Well, my sister, in all her feministic splendor, eats these multi-flavored treats; or maybe it’s that she doesn’t, but that my parents think she does. That being the case, my parents buy boxes full, while my sister lets them sit in the cupboard. Knowing my family, they may sit there a good many years until they are shipped off to me, her always hungry brother. My parents send me all sorts of snacks, which I finish in less time than it takes them to get from there to here. There were only a few sweet or salty delights which I hesitated to bite into. Some of these treats I did not eat as they had long past their expiration date, and so, not wanting to pass my own expiration date, I shared them with my hungry trash can. The other snacks I worried about were the Luna Bars.

I mean, just what is the Luna Bar? Could eating one have any consequcne on my gender or sexual orientation? Perhaps they fill these bars with estrogen. I do not want to be unbalancing my chemical levels; I like my levels right where they are. I don’t need breasts; I just need to stay awake. All these worries went through my brain that unfortunately had to also deal with complaints from my empty stomach and heavy eyelids. When the classes and exams started, my brain gave into any impurity it might come across in order to simply flush out all difficulties. It seems today, I was not merely being tested in literature, but in testosterone as well. So, throughout the whole exam, I was distracted by worries of gender transformation. Then in the middle of my exam, a horrible thought came to mind: I’m pretty sure I haven’t had a period lately!

Display of Nature, Intelligence, and Love

Coincidentally, all four of my designer sports cars need repairs in the same week, so I must bike to class. There are benefits, though. Each morning I become one with nature, particularly with rain puddles. It is a truly bonding event for my originally light colored pant legs as they regain a more natural color from the ground which is wet with melted snow. Passing cars like to help me in my endeavor to bond with nature as they splash more water from puddles onto me. Always one to share, I exchange their splashes for the experience of seeing the middle finger that mother nature gave to me. Sometimes the kind drivers even roll down the window so that we may show off the voices that nature gave us. We sing duets loudly enough for everybody on the street to enjoy, using words of natural and bodily functions. They compliment the moistness and new earthly color of my clothing, and then I compliment the impressive size of their posterior and sometimes the modest size of other body parts. Who could be filled with anything but elation after such forthcoming verbal ejaculations? That’s why I’ve been in such a good mood for all my classes this week.

Tonight is also a happy time for me because tomorrow one of my professors will give me an opportunity to prove my knowledge on the subject matter of the class. I am so excited that I will probably be able to do nothing but think about it all night. I bet I won’t even be able to sleep. It’s always nice to have something to look forward to. I’m already dreading my weekend, filled with nothing but free time. Perhaps I will have to fill up the time dreaming of other chances to prove my intelligence and hard work.

In one of my classes, I have been instructed to make a list of as many clichés for love as I can come up with. I have been advised to look at the accumulating Valentine’s Day cards in shops and anywhere else where I might bring to mind other painful metaphors and sayings. So, help me out if you can.

As for me, I will be daydreaming about tomorrow when I can show my professor just how smart I am.

Far from the Truth

I was checking a message board for one of my classes. One of my brilliant classmates posted a message boasting that he had just taken an IQ test, received a pretty score, was a genius, and was pretty close to Einstein. However, based on the numbers he gave me and my psychology classes he wasn’t that close to Einstein’s, whose IQ wasn’t that high (relative to his amazing work). Also, the classmate wasn’t even in the next range down (gifted): he was only above average. Lastly, IQ tests don’t mean a whole lot, especially when this supposed genius didn’t even realize he posted the same exact message multiple times in a row. It must take an idiot to work the message board. He should go hang out with Hollow Boy. It’s not that they’re idiots, but that they’re pretending to be geniuses.

I however, have not been feeling like a genius lately. I got this very official looking card in the mail. It had a claim number on it and a phone number that I had to call (within 24 hours of receipt). Before thinking about it, I called the number and gave the claim number. I assumed it was a package for me, since I am expecting one soon. It was not a package, and actually I’m not really sure what it was. Apparently some organization has been sending out these cards, and they want people to go to these meetings. They get people to do this by offering prizes and such. It’s hard to tell, but it sounded like you got something for just showing up and had the possibility of getting more—which I don’t believe. I’m just not very interested in such things, but since I had already given the claim number, I was given a time and place. So now I can decide to go to this meeting and believe that they actually give away prizes and that they won’t try to kill me, or I can just forget about it. They say I have to bring the card with me and an ID, as if it’s a bar where youngsters are going to try to break in. I’m curious as to how they got my name and address and what type of scam they will hit me with. Maybe they’ll lock me in a room and do scientific experiments on me. I’ll end up with two more arms. Maybe they’ll try to sell me a credit card—the horror of it all! I should probably go just so I have something to write about in my poetry class. Maybe it’s dangerous, or worse and more likely, a big waste of time. I really have no idea what it is. I should have asked when I was on the phone, but there really wasn’t a time to. It’s too bad the groundhog can’t predict anything about the meeting.

Since it is Groundhog Day today, see what Phil has to say. Maybe Phil is a genius. It sounds like he went back into hiding.

I have also been hiding lately. In one of my English classes, I have one of those professors that you see in movies. He’s the size of a refrigerator and his voice is loud and precise. When he says the word novel, he says, “NAAAW-vel.” He randomly calls on students to answer difficult questions, and if you haven’t read the book enough to answer them you have to leave the room. There is a horrible amount of reading assigned in the class, and many students don’t finish it all on time; so for an hour each day, everybody sits in quiet fear. The thing is: he isn’t very good at remembering people’s names. He scans his attendance sheet and in this way, randomly picks out victims to call on. Fortunately for me, he accidentally crossed out my name at the beginning of the semester, mistakenly thinking I had dropped the class, and had to uncross it out. Uncrossing out ink doesn’t really work, though, and since there are other cross outs that belong to true dropped out students, he never remembers my name should be there. So while he scans through the list of names, I remain hidden.

Vanity: Too Much and Not Enough

Don’t worry: not all my entries will be like that last one. To balance it out, I’ll write a different type of entry.

So I have this really annoying classmate. Okay, actually I have many, but there are a few who are really annoying that I have to listen to a lot and that have been extra annoying this week.

There’s this one classmate of mine who looks like he lives on the streets. Actually, I’ve seen people on the streets who are better groomed and dressed than he. I’m sure he was a dog in a past life. I believe a comb has never touched his long jungle of hair, nor shampoo. His beard resembles a bird’s nest. He dresses in a stained trench coat that looks like the carpet of a cheap bus station. A small radius around him is needed as a buffer because those who sit too close to him may suffocate.

The first time he lurked up to me was after an exam. Students left one by one, whenever they finished. I was out early, but as it turned out, not early enough. I stepped into the empty hallway outside of the quiet room and this scarecrow walked up to me. Before I could get my coat on and escape, he said something to me. His demon eyes were focused upon me, and I understood what a prey must feel like just before pounced upon. When he spoke, it didn’t sound like words of any language I knew. It sounded more like a snorting horse, about to gallop.

“Sorry, what?” I asked.

“[Grumble, snort]” he said.

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you.”

The hairy scarecrow stepped closer to me. “[Snort, grumble]” he said. His breath was like an old basement that hasn’t been cleaned in decades, and was hot and thick like a sweaty dog. I shut my eyelids tightly and lowered my ear. He leaned ever closer. I could hear the maggots in his teeth squeaking. He whispered his dog breath into my ear. “Do you know where a bathroom is?” I tried to be helpful. I gave him some suggestions, but I think he grunted that he had already looked in those places. I apologized quickly, and escaped.

However, he again found me in the next class. He sat down right behind me so that his breath could create a greenhouse effect around me. I shuddered, and I think he thought I was cold. I was surprised he recognized me and felt we had enough of a relationship that he should make such a comment. He mentioned the freezing weather, and I mentioned Groundhog Day and how it would tell us what to expect. My neck never turned, though. I concentrated on writing notes I really didn’t need to write.

After class started, he would continue to whisper horrors in my ear. The professor was lecturing on some boring subject that everybody in class already knew. He mentioned how in a certain process electrons diffuse. He said that it was a kind of force. Then, from behind me, I heard the words, “Luke, use the force!” I would have laughed if I wasn’t frightened for my life, and suffocating.

Later in the lecture, from behind me I felt a tapping on my shoulder. The taps were much like the kind you would expect a ghost would haunt you with. I ignored them at first, guessing they were unintentional. It was hard to tell because I was dizzy from the classmate’s fumes. As the taps continued, I had to respond. I turned my head ever so slightly so as not to peer into those horrible eyes or to breathe in the exact direction of the beast. He spoke, “Do you have a quarter?” Now I don’t know what he needed a quarter for in the middle of class, and I didn’t ask. I just got out my change, fished around for a quarter, pinched it between my thumb and finger, and raised my hand over my shoulder. The quarter was pulled from my fingers, and his dirty claws briefly pushed against my nails. “Thanks,” he snorted. I didn’t turn around again; I didn’t pay attention at all.

This is not my classmate, but you get the idea.


At the end of class, when I finally turned around to leave, he was gone, although the stench was not. I like to think that there is some machine that will give a person a shower for a quarter, and that he was going to this machine. Most people do not benefit from any added self-importance. Though his self esteem may not be low, he could certainly use some more vanity.

This brings me to another annoying classmate. I call him the Hollow Boy.

Definition of Hollow Boy: The Hollow Boy is a student who imagines his gray matter is somewhat of a delicacy among intellectuals, including professors. Due to the surplus of authentic morons my cornfield university has, Hollow Boy is able to succeed in his vision of grandeur. Hollow Boy likes to use elegant words, which might make his mouth beautiful except for the crap in his teeth that he has from kissing the professor’s ass. The professor may even find it attractive to humor this student and call on his ever raised hand when the rest of his mob of students can only utter words of academic vomit. However, in any other class where the majority of students have more than the orange flavor of the Jello brand between their ears, he would be nothing more than the vain piece of chewed meat that he is.

Hollow Boy was a mosquito buzzing around my ears from the first day. The situation began to suffer when his sophomoric vanity was elevated by the ramblings of students who hunger for their own voices to quickly decay their own chances for sounding at all sharp. They should have stapled their lips because at least before the class began, nobody knew the extent of their dumbassity. “It is better to keep your mouth shut and let everybody think you are an idiot than to open it and prove them right.”

The only reason I am stranded in the room of cosmetic wearing monkeys is because the university’s requirements for credentials of a minimum intelligence dictate that I must. Having already finished the more difficult ones, I elected to not make an already exhausting course load heavier. Therefore, I have sunk to classes with heads that are cranially challenged in thickness. As probably is the case with Hollow Boy, I have already suffered through more advanced classes which have taken me beyond the simple analysis needed for this easier one. I have to admit that he must know something about something, if only that. Unlike Hollow Boy, however, I have spent enough hours in the more advanced classes to know that his seemingly clever insights are actually nothing more than urine in a cocktail glass with one of those little umbrellas.

If it is not bad enough that he sprinkles words of glitter over himself all class, at the end, I found him engaging in further kissassery. He went privately to the professor in the front of the room and was asking questions that only 100% pure beef suck up would ask. Not even an interested fool would inquire over such insignificancies. “Oh, today’s subject matter was so interesting. Do tell me more, My Dear Professor. The class’s discussion was simply orgasmic!” Class is not such a delight for me. It’s more like going with my parents to decide what color carpet they should buy for the livingroom. I simply show up, say what I have to, leave, and do what assignments I must. Anybody who finds the class that interesting goes on my list of people who need a swift kick to the arse.

His vicarious perfection is limited, though. He was a quarter hour late to class on the day our first assignment was due. His excuse was that there was a long line for printing off the computers. I well know the horrors of the busy computer labs, but if Hollow Boy were all he says he’s cracked up to be, then he would have done his assignment and printed it off on time, which he obviously didn’t. He couldn’t even turn in the very easy assignment. He said that even though he waited, he still couldn’t print it off and that he would hand it in later. His dear professor went along with it, though. Hollow Boy all but fell on his knees and worshipped the professor as if thanking him over and over would take away his fear of not getting his assignment in on time. Fear and pride can bring out good in people. Hollow Boy shows us the alternative.