Left Handed Compliments

I take slight offense to the whole idea of “left handed compliments.” To my understanding, a left handed compliment is praising someone by pointing out a negative. Being a proud lefty, I think we get enough negative with studies advertising shorter life spans, depression and an inability to use scissors as our press coverage. The only reason you might want to be a lefty (as if there was a choice or anything) is for the supposed creativity we seem to be able to tap into with our right brain being the engaged area when we hold the pen. I guess these days, everyone is typing and it’s almost a moot point. Then again, most of the letters needed for typing our beatific English language are punched in by our left hand. Honestly I’ve always been a bit ambidextrous anyway. I write and eat with my left hand, but I play sports with a right-hander’s approach. Sometimes I would request a left-handed desk during a standardized test just to feel special, but other than a lifelong resentment towards scissors, I really haven’t felt the effects of left handed life dragging me into a spiral of depression or an early grave. 

That being said, my left-handed compliment is thus. For a middle-class white girl, I think I’m pretty flexible. I’m visiting my parents today, and am waiting for them to get back from the grocery store. I figured I’d get my blogging out of the way, but there’s not a single coffee shop on the side of town where my parents live. In the interest of being one to roll with change and try new experiences, I decided to come blog at a fast food restaurant that offers the free wi-fi and has a coffee bar…of sorts. This chain plays very fast and loose with the term “iced coffee.” I asked for an unsweetened iced coffee and I essentially got a sweetened cup of milk. I usually drink my coffee black and so this small cup of beige liquid is like a dessert to me. Also, I’m pretty sure there’s aspertane in their syrups because my hands are currently breaking out in a red, hot rash. The allergies don’t lie, people. This coffee is sweetened, and artificially. My flexibility as a white girl only goes so far. 

Yet, I will say one thing for this place of the free wi-fi. They’ve got a more satisfying food selection than the quirky corporate coffee shop I usually hit up. All that really translates into is french fries, but the power of potatoes is not to be scoffed at. I do think people here at the fast food eatery are a little weirded out by my presence though. The coffee shop is an obvious place to see laptops out and students type type typing away. But it seems like a conspiracy of sorts to see someone doing that here. Any hipster worth their salt wouldn’t be seen dead in this place, but this is where the real people are. There’s a man with football themed orange slippers at the register. There’s another guy in a camo jacked and a Duck Dynasty beard having dinner with his daughter. The cashier here is pregnant. The baristas at my normal haunt are immune to this ailment I think. I can’t imagine them growing a human. My poor hand is getting redder and redder as I drink this coffee, but I’m a little apprehensive about returning to get it remade. Things like that just aren’t done here. I know the rules of food service, and I think a sweetened coffee that gives my hands a little break out is better than eye rolls and a spit laced cup. 

I haven’t spoken to Lanks in days, and I think this time it’s finally over. In so many ways, I’ve been saying well I’m done since the whole thing began. Things should be easy and flow, and this has been more of an attempt at mind-reading and anine gameplay than anything else. Besides, the sooner I sweep away someone who mistreats me, the sooner I am opening the door for a genuinely sweet person who actually cares about me and what I’m trying to accomplish to come crashing through the scenery. Feel free to crash in anytime, whomever you are. I do have a gate crasher to talk about, but he’s not exactly available if you know what I mean.

It’s because I met him in a dream. That’s right, dream diary strikes again! And you thought you’d heard the last of my unconscious! The first dream was kind of scary and interesting all at the same time. Last night, I kept feeling the urge to brush my teeth even though I had already done so. So when I dreamed, I dreamed I was pulling out my teeth that were loose in my mouth. As I pulled them out, the underside of the teeth were filled with the missing earring backs that I had lost off of earrings over the years. There was also a ring with an amber stone inside one of the hollow undersides of the tooth I pulled out. 

This is a hard one for me to interpret or make connections to. I suppose the teeth are something that is a part of me, and important thing as well since I’ve had braces and my parents have stressed oral care for years with their dental tech backgrounds. Losing these would be traumatic, as traumatic as losing any part of my self. But in the losing of this part of self, I discovered something I was missing and constantly losing  (the earring backs) and also something new and beautiful (the ring). I think this represents my struggle to deal with my changing life in losing the life I have known, but finding something that is more of my own. 

The second dream was set in a shopping mall that led directly out onto a sandy beach. I was there with this sandy-haired beach bum character. I think we must have been romantically linked because we kept talking about how we’d like to kiss each other but it seemed like such an inconvenience to the other and so we were afraid to ask the other. So this guy, whoever he was, decided to lose the swim trunks and go for a swim. He strips and then starts running towards the ocean but the mall gate is closing between the store beach and the ocean. Blackbirds are trying to stream through the gate as it is closing. Fade to black. 

This one is even harder to explain. Yes, the mall is my prison at times, trapping me from the water I so identify with and enjoy. Water equals life. The mall during the holidays closes this gate and leaves me on a sandy (desert) plain with a naked man (?) I can see the kiss and inconvenience thing because I felt like I was always tip-toeing and asking for permission for any affection from Lanks. Nakedness could be insecurity again, but I don’t think so. I was kind of disturbed by this flagrant nakedness of another in this instance and was glad when it ran away from me. Maybe I am secretly glad that Lanks is moving away from me just when he’s starting to let me in about the condition or feelings he may or may not have. Also, the birds…an ominous thing slipping through the gate that’s also protecting me from deep water. Interesting. 

After these dreams, my mind was buzzing and so I was up for an hour. And strangely hungry. I got a piece of cheese and all was well.

I am off tomorrow so expect more blog. I’m making a heroic venture to the DMV to get a new tag and I’ll need coffee at some point, but no more fast food substitutes. There will be some hang time with momma so maybe I’ll have an anecdote there. Also, maybe a nice boy will admit he’s had a secret crush on me for a year. Who knows….who knows.   


Metaphors and Offerings of Caffeine to the Golden Calf Of Retail

Whine. It’s hard to write something interesting and meaningful every day. But this is a sentiment I’ve heard across the board. Everyone,  even the gods of authorland like Stephen King, says the days come where it’s like pounding your head against a wall to write anything, and everything you write seems like garbage. Not like Shirley Manson Garbage, because nah, that’s talent Garbage. Like a child grabbed a handful of crayons and decided to share their day, having no concept of language, what people find interesting, and no experience to make the events they tell relevant or even descriptive. Kind of like 50 Shades of Grey. (Burrrrrn)

Whatever. Coffee drinkers…did you ever notice the different kind of buzz you get between drinking coffee as opposed to espresso? The difference seems the opposite of what I would imagine it to be. Coffee gives me this urgent, rapid fire, buzz of feeling like I can do anything and I’ve got to do everything within the span of an hour that stretches much longer than it should, but pleasantly. It’s like a prolonged laugh that is often too loud, but not offensive. It’s swell when you have a deadline or have reached that creative wall. It does seem to leave you scooped out afterward though, as if you’ve thought all the thoughts of the day. After it wears off, I’m always worth pretty much nothing mentally. 

Espresso, for which the equivalent translation is one shot equalling one cup of coffee, is a much more extended high that exists as an intense experience that also puts the mind in a mellow sort of thinking. Espresso makes my hands shake and transfers my circulation so that my fingertips are always cold after I’ve had a cup. But it seems to open my mind to ideas and alertness more gradually and at a speed I can process and therefore go deeper into a topic under the influence. Coffee throws a fast pitch, and espresso gives me an underhanded toss right across the plate. I don’t “sports” very often so that metaphor might be a little lacking. Nota Bene: For more information on lacking metaphors see author Maggie Steifvater’s blog for her analysis of the “Dark Horse” song. It’s alternately hilarious and spot-on.

I feel like I can actually get things done on espresso (although I still may struggle creatively), whereas coffee gives me better ideas that I should probably just write down before I see a distracting link for a cat video. I also feel like coffee is probably more cravable because it gives such an intense feeling, similar to that of a drug high. Espresso is nice, but I think the risk of addiction is probably less because it doesn’t pack such a wallop. 

This could all just be my body reacting to espresso and coffee. Every body reacts differently to drugs in the system, and therefore results may vary. If you are just getting around to the knowledge that caffiene is a drug, then I’m sorry I have rocked your naive addict lifestyle. It’s a recreational and accepted drug by society, just like alcohol, and so don’t go flushing all your Red Bull down the toilet. And besides, my body is not exactly the yardstick to measure experiences to with my seemingly arbitrary and random list of allergies. Case in point: I had another recreational drug last night in the form of a glass of wine and my hands broke out in angry red, they burned and itched and I was quite tipsy with a single glass. (I’m looking at you Sulfites)  

I’m sure at this point I could go on about how there are certain drugs, seemingly just as “harmless” as alcohol and caffiene, that are illegal, and the reasons this should or should not be so. But I’m not going there. That horse has been beat enough, and furthermore, I don’t really have a vested interest or care in the matter. If having a glass of wine sends my body into rejection-stupid mode then I can’t and don’t care to imagine what other drugs would do to it. I like to firmly be in control of my own thoughts and actions at least 90% of the time and so that lifestyle just isn’t for me. I have absolutely no problem if that is your lifestyle and drugs (illegal or otherwise) are something you value. We can still be friends. I know you were real worried about that. But I’ll just sit and sip my coffee while you take the pill that makes you smaller. Maybe we can discuss Camus. 

It’s time for the daily dream analysis again. Last night’s dream was quite the allegorical passport, and unfortunately I know that I’ve forgotten one or more of the elements I remember initially upon waking. I do remember the dream dividing into two distinct parts. 

The first dream was not much of a dream at all. It was really more of a snapshot. Indeed, it was me, looking at a photograph of this year’s Dragon Con weekend. The photo showed the Carnegie arch in Atlanta where the DC Comics photoshoot for costuming was held. It was just a picture of the arch, and in the background I stood, Lanks beside me, and I was looking  (rather regally, I might say) at something far off, outside the frame. I don’t remember where Lanks was looking. 

In real life, I did attend Dragon Con this year and was at the DC shoot with Lanks. I don’t remember ever seeing this photo though. I also have a photo in my album of the Carnegie arch from where I’d visited Atlanta as a pre-teen. I think the integration of this past photo with a present person in my life is a wish for this integration to happen in real life. The arch is symbolic to me as a type of alter or gateway. Myself and a crush at a gateway, with me looking at something far away from the gateway says to me that I may not be as committed to the idea of transitioning through the new door with my romantic interest as I think I am. The gateway is there, but I’m keeping my options open for whatever is coming my way from afar. 

Man, that sounds deep. When did I get to be such a dream guru?

Anyhow, the second part of the extended dream sequence took me to a local arts high school, that I’ve been to, but did not attend for my own education. The school looked a lot like the Guggenheim Museum inside. I was sitting by a group of lockers and watched a high school girl pitch her phone over the balcony of the second storey and down onto ground level where I was. She was shouting about how the person who was on the phone, her love interest, didn’t call or text, and therefore she was done looking at her phone for these missing messages. I laughed at her and said something snarky, and the others on the ground floor came up to me and said they recognized me from “my work” and were told about me from teachers that had taught me at the school years before. From there, I stepped up on the platform of the floor I was on and looked at a gigantic statue there that was similar to a Munny figure, but with multiple heads, and it changed colors slowly like a 70’s lamp of some sort. From here, I know there was something more to the dream, but I don’t recall what happened next.

My interpretation of this is that the school, and its similarity to a famous art museum speak to me of my desire to make great art and have it recognized in an institution that specilizes in that area. The fact that I was recognized by current students as a former student and a success with some body of work hopefully speaks to me of how I am happy to a degree with how others support my writing and my stuggle to have it read. It also seems that I am aware that I am still a student when it comes to writing and have not quite mde the leap in my writing to the “teacher” status or being published by a known name. The statue is a harder interpretation. The only place I have seen that statue is at work, and the fact that it was so large, towering over me, could mean that I’m daunted and overwhelmed by this product that represents the retail world of the holiday season. It’s multiple heads and changing colors make it a curiosity that I’m not sure what to do with or how to make it speak to me of relivence. It also makes it seem like a mythical monster of some sort that I’ve been sent to face, and have no idea how to interact with it. Both true of my relationship with retail. Also, the Munny figure is a blank faced figure that you can decorate with whatever you want it to look like or essentially who you want it to be. It could be looking at an outward representation of myself and how I wish to have this image of self viewed and judged by others. A kind of, who am I and how do others see me type of quest on my brain. 

I do wish I would remember the missing piece from this. I have a feeling it has something to do with Lanks. I know that I identify myself and the girl throwing the phone as the same person, different sidess of myself. The one is volitile and destructive because things don’t go my way, and the other laughs at this side as well as the idea of waiting for a call or text from a mere boy. Eh, like I said, my brain knows what’s up before I do. And it’s all about just throwing the offending object aside or laughing it up until they decide to play ball with me. Because, for now, I go my own way and I’m going to allow the pitches to come at me whether espresso or coffee or none of the above delivers. I have found though, if you stand still long enough, something (good bad this that or neither) will come your way. Gotta get my mitt out and ready myself to catch the curve ball or whatever nonsense otherwise comes down the line. That’s enough sports metaphors for a lifetime. Off to battle with the formidable retail statue! More dreams to come, I hope!

-Anna R. Kotopple


Dreaming of Male Oppression

Writing isn’t working today. I feel so unexplainably agitted. Is it because I’d like to clean my car up, but it’s cold outside? Is it because I’m tired and drained? Is this music too loud in thie coffee shop, and my thoughts frozen because I’m essentially drinking hot water instead of lovely hot brew? And then there’s that guy on the other end of the coffee shop, whose eyes are darting across me and every person in the room because he’s got that inspiration and that caffiene buzz and it’s working for him. I can tell that whatever he’s got on that screen is working for him. He stops and takes a sip of coffee, adjusts his headphones and delves back in. Maybe the block comes from the regular in my coffee shop who is now in this one. It’s a free country but I’m having a time concentrating when I think about him being over there with lady who is the ex of a friend. Oh my drama. 

I think my next read will have to be Freud’s “Interpretation of Dreams.” Campbell has referenced it and the importance of dreams as a means of information about your spiritual (non-religious) self. He says that dreams are important to record and write down what the ideas in them remind you of or how you view them because it may not neccessarily have to do with the thing you are dreaming about but it can be a thought of interest on an issue you are unconciously needing to find some solution or thought to. He suggests writing down the dream and then taking a fraction of that or one or two images or ideas and write down what comes to your mind in relation to these images. Because these are things that are influencing you even if you don’t know they are. 

So here’s last night’s dream. I have a co-worker who is very obviously into me. I’m not trying to make myself feel good with this. It just is. And I’m his boss, and furthermore, I’m don’t find him attractive. But last night, I dreamed he was at my house and we were having a sleep over of some kind. He looked inside my fridge and commented on my food in there, saying it smelled. Now, I’d just bought groceries and so I was offended, but I lifted up a plastic bag in the crisper drawer and out came a roach, scuttling along the fridge, out, up the wall and disappearing.

It’s always disturbing to see a roach. They are dirty and unclean, and are attracted to to similar circumstances. Nobody wants that. Perhaps I feel that something close to me or inside me is dirty or unclean? I needed to take a shower this morning and I thought about that as I laid down, so that may be your simple answer. But, why would this co-worker be exposing this “dirty little secret,” residing on a supposedly fresh tomato, to me? Earlier that day a friend had posted a status about not liking tomatoes or onions. 

Also, in this dream, I was in my pajamas. But the pajamas I wear when I’m alone…which is an oversized t-shirt and panties. So, this person who is attracted to me and openly says things about how “amazing” he finds me, was running around my house, calling me out on roaches while I was embarassed about my dirty fridge, standing almost naked in front of him. 

Nakedness is insecurity about an issue, I think. I know there is a sense of that every time I have to be scantily clad at the beach or whatnot. Or maybe there’s a part of me that wants to be exposed in front of someone who seems to value the package I’m putting out there. 

Also, in the dream, the co-worker said an insult to me, but it was obviously from the movie Anchorman. I’m able to quote this movie pretty much on demand. So I fired back the next insult line at him from Veronica Corningstone’s dialogue. Apparently, I slightly stumbled on the last word of saying, “You look like a blueberry.” And co-worker called me on it and embarrassed me agian.

Now, here is the embarassment thing again. Three times in one dream. It’s starting to seem like I’m worried about being embarrassed in front of someone who admires or is attracted to me. That’s pretty legitimate. I do want to seem intelligent and well…flawless in front of a potential love interest. As long as my brain isn’t trying to tell me that going for this co-worker is a good idea. Because it’s not. Abort. No matter how nice and personable he may be, dating a co-worker is not my bag, baby. And again, he is not attractive to me. He’s also not very educated. I’m gonna need someone who can carry a conversation with me, and if I can be a little conceited (go ahead Anna) I’m at a level of intelligence that requires a bit of work to impress. 

Anyway, that was the dream. Today was just kind of bland and I can’t get the words to co-operate at the moment. The only other thing to say is to comment on Ken’s love life. I hope Ken doesn’t mind. 

Ken is single. And Ken laments this fact. Usually I lament right alongside Ken, but today I offered another perspective…the one I’d gained yesterday. I told Ken the best advice I could give when it comes to dating is to give up. Love and relationships come best when unbidden. You’ll more than likely fall into it when you’re headed for some other destination. I suggested getting wrapped up in life as much as possible so that love and relationships are almost an afterthought. There’s so much more to know and discover than a person’s phone number is what I’m trying to say. I’ve had a lot of fun with Lanks, but when I’m honest about it, what we have is not really a relationship and it’s going to get more terminally causual from this point. And it’s fine…it’s all fine. Zen, baby, zen. There’s someone out there who is coming for me and I’ve only got to open myself to that when it comes. Or perhaps there’s not someone, and I’m just destined to watch and write it all down. I’m good with that too. All I’m saying is that really and truly, I give up. Next time I think about making the first move, I’m going to hold back and accept the freefall of what happens, happens. Because people are so wrapped up in themselves that when they notice you first, it truly is a miracle, I think. 

Furthermore, perhaps the reason Ken can’t find a Steady is that many people think we are dating. Perhaps because we are always sharing space, as friends are wont to do, I’m told. I’m here to anonymously clear this all up. Ken and I are friends. The best of friends. But we would literally kill one another if we were to relationship. We are there in a friend capacity and are very greatful for each other, I’m sure, but yeah, no dice. 

Final note. I never really imagined I’d be that “crazy feminist” type that everyone seems to fear so much, but I reached a new level today. I am working on naming my car, because such things are done. I took a few suggestions for names from the Facebook and they were all feminine names. The feminist in me wants to post a status about how I won’t be naming my car a feminine name because it always seems like objects are always given feminine names, thus perpetuating in small part the cycle of associating women with things to be objectified. Therefore, I will be naming my car something masculine to go spread the objectification around. Plus, my car is a dude. That’s how I roll. 

I won’t rant on FB, but just so everyone knows, the opportunity was there. My efforts to change the mentality of people towards feminists prohibits me from going all uber-strict on something that I’m going to classify as trivial. It’s just interesting to note that when an object needed to be named, it was all lady names. That’s why you can’t tell me that feminism is unneccessary. 

Well, enough jaw exercise for today. I’m out!

-Anna R. Kotopple

The Evil Tick of the Clock

It is almost impossible for me to write anything longer than a page or more substantial than a resume when I’m working at home. Even typing out that sentence was brutal. Not counting the fact that I pay $50 a month for an internet service that works only when the planets align and I make an offering to the digital router, it’s just so difficult to get out writing that seems to flow when I’m by myself, at home, with a definite absense of good coffee. The biggest irony may be that, although I’m a barista with often praised drink making skills, I can’t make a decent cup of plain coffee at home. I blame my ancient, cheap coffee machine. Alas, every attempt I’ve made at homemade coffee on this dollarstore equipment has ended in a hot pot of disappointment

Absolute proof of that is that that one paragraph was all I could manage to do while sitting at home. I have taken to the coffee shop, and the presence of the cup of brew at my side alone as well as this wood table and the others that are here type type typing away is helping this blog entry along. I can already tell this post is going to not come easy, kicking and screaming, into this world. The first paragraph alone had the word “imporrible” in it that I didn’t even notice until now, almost two hours from putting it on screen.

Perhaps, this is all because at the back of my mind I don’t feel like I should be here at the coffee shop blogging, nor should I be blogging at all, even if it is part of an obligation of sorts I’ve locked myself into with this NaBloPoMo thing. Here’s what I mean. I’ve got some guilt at this self-serving behavior I’ve been indulging in for 16 days. I’ve been literally dropping all the problems in my world, the to-do lists that now have to-do lists of their own, and everything that is not related to getting at least 1,500 words out of the ether and into your life. It’s a selfish thing, I think, even if it is supposedly building my habit to write everyday and/or/nor making me a better, more developed writer by proxy. Even now, I’ve got Rachaele asking me to lunch and I am going to have to put the blog on the shelf when she gets to this side of town because I don’t want to blow off my human connections for a darn rambling session of philosphy I feel I may be embarking on.

It could be that because I’m reading Joesph Campbell’s 24-hour interview with Bill Moyers in book form, that I feel I am running out of time to make my mark and to fill my life with the experiences that make the life mean something. Ken says it’s a common feeling among everyone, this feeling that I’m a terrible manager of time and it’s slipping away from me before I can put the things I need for it to have to move forward in my life in it. Take for instance my need to buy a new car or a reliable used car. I know I have this need, but I can’t seem to devote the day hours to getting it accomplished. Add in the fact that I also don’t really have the salary to add a car payment to my monthly budget and the fact that my car is an object that is quickly moving towards its expiration date.  How does one balence the missing funds, the need, and the lack of time outside of work, eating, sleeping and remaining sane? My word, I’m never allowed to complain about boredom again. Because I think the car is the least of the list of must-do’s. 

There’s also the ever present desire to send my writing off to publishing houses, which itself might be an exercise in futility without the services of a publishing agent. And how does one employ an agent without funds? The cycle continues. As the Internet says: The struggle is real. Oh, what else is on this bitch list? There’s the job situation that is on there that begs a chunk of my non-existent time as well. I need a REAL job that utilizes at least one of my degrees and a bit more of my brain, and yet, I need time to network and go to non-profit charity events to find said sweet job. And to get invited to these parties of potential jobs I need to have an internship (and be a college student again somehow) or to be volunteering (more time) or to have more experience in the field (duh, I need a job people). I’m thwacking myself in the head upon remembering the networking seminars I attended as an intern for the chamber of commerce and how boring I thought these were as I snacked on mini cheese cubes. Will my moments of indifference to life be my downfall? Or should I just give up on sleeping and get all this nonsense knocked out this week? (…7 day later, life is completed! I’ll send everyone invites to the wedding! Ha)

It’s funny that I’ve heard Lanks lament all these issues before but I thought he was exaggerating and didn’t really see the scope of the problem when he said things like “I have no time. I have no money. I have no future.” I kind of brushed this off as melodrama, and again touched it with the sin of indifference. Now, I’m seeing things from his point of view, which is very similar to my own at this point  and I’m wondering what does one do in this situation? I feel as though we are trying as hard as we can to get out of our individual ruts, but we can’t move, and we are constantly placated by people telling us “it’s not that bad, everyone is going through it, keep at it.” To those people, no offense (I was one of these not too long ago), what other choice do we really have than to “keep going” ? I mean, we can lay down in the road or accept the retail job in electronics, but I’m balking at both of these so hard. I think that those of us blessed with intelligence and a means to communicate it owe ourselves the struggle, the weight on our chests of continually hitting the wall, constantly trying to accomplish massive tasks and completing 0 to 1% of our struggle per day.

If anyone has any advice for us to find our job, our place, our center in the universe and it’s different than the motivational poster of a frog’s arms choking the neck of bird that’s trying to consume it, please pass that along. Colleges and Universities send all these motivational speakers to campus to try and give students a reason to keep struggling, but I think the real need in the community these days is for motivational people (who perhaps have actually attained a level of success we can admire) to be out speaking to 20 somethings who are struggling to make sense of it all AFTER the school years have ended. It’s a bad thing to feel lost in a world that has seemingly undergone no real change other than your perspective. Could it be any wonder that people “give up” or give in to depression or drugs or alcohol or any other means of coping? I can’t judge that too harshly, honestly. Whatever gets you through the night. The Beatles always know what to say.  

Well, it looks like the coffee shop has stimulated the writer in me again, at least. If nothing else, this experiment in writing publicly and at great length on the daily is allowing me to delve a little deeper each day into my own thoughts. These are thoughts that remain hidden from even me most of the time, and I only really realize I am thinking them when they spill onto the page like an overturned ink well. Messy. But maybe you’ll learn not to fill your well so full in the future before you dip into that and spread some out into open air. 

Speaking of the subconscious, it was yet another night for a remembered dream. Again, I was back in high school. (Do I keep utilizing this setting as a means of starting over? ) I was sitting at one of the long lunch tables with my assigned class, perched upon those hard blue circular seats with a tray of rice and chicken. I’d chastised a fellow student for taking too large of a portion, and not leaving enough for the rest behind them. I’m not sitting alone, but I don’t know anyone at my table. I look across to the table opposite, and there sits the beautiful and cooly reclining Lanks, making those cafeteria torture furniture looking like fine upholstry. He smiles at me, the nervous and supportive one he sometimes gives. Then he comes over and sits beside me, and I put an arm around him in uncharacteristic PDA as he leans into me. As he cuddles into me in silence, I don’t want to take my attention from this warm body against me. I’m hungry, but I don’t want to even move my mouth for fear of disturbing his cheek against mine. As we stare off into space, a silent musical interpretation band is setting up. We listen to their silent music and tap our feet to the beat. 

With dreams like these and thoughts like these being brought into the open and into my throught plane now, I’m begining to get the feeling that there’s only a small percentage of people who are actually crazy. I think we are all just a little confused, searching for some kind of clarity with the hours that aren’t even real, the time that exists only in our head, all of us working towards these goals that seem impossible until they lay completed before us: a closed book with our name on it, hundreds of pages of our struggle tucked within. 

-Anna R. Kotopple