friskin

Every time this guy comes into the box office to order tickets, I follow the protocol. Filling out the form, I smile cheerfully as I ask his name. I do this for a couple of reasons: One, I don't want to seem like a creepy stalker, and two, I hate that people achieve the status of celebrity so easily here. And somehow I get a sick satisfaction out of seeing a little self-important sparkle in his eye wither away. Next time I'll pretend to remember his face or maybe I'll make a guess and get it wrong on purpose. So I suppose I'm feeling cynical. Whatever. This god damned fucking drama bullshit will not be tolerated, nor will any blows to my pride. No no no. I've had enough of that for one semester. Quota hs been filled. Now I'm ready to get out of here and forget I knew any of these people who pretend they don't know me. Good thing I never really liked them in the first place.

Tomorrow I will be locking myself up in the library all day until I finish this research paper, so don't even bother trying to rescue me. Except please do because I might be going totally nutso.

(And to you, Sir, in the front row: If you're looking to start a staring match, I know you know you'll win. Some may think you might as well not even open your big brown love bombs, but I would argue, then, that when you do, when you force your gaze upon me to make some kind of point, I will see you better than you will ever see me, and that is probably my own fault. I will also see you better than you will ever see yourself, and THAT is a sad, sad predicament to be in, because we all own a lot that we can't be proud of. And there I've gone and ended a sentence with a preposition. Boo.)